THE 
JACK-KNIFE 

MAN 


SB    EMfi    471 


ELLIS  PARKER  BUTLER 


.      GIFT  OF 
Prof.    C.    A.    Kofoid 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 


Striving  to  get  one  last  breath 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 


BY 

ELLIS  PARKER  BUTLER 

Author  of 

"Pigs  is  Pigs,"  "The  Confessions 
of  a  Daddy,"  etc. 


Illustrated  by 
HANSON  BOOTH 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1913 


15$- 

is, 

* 

J 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
THE  BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Published,  September,  igi3 


TO 

MY  FATHER 
Whose  heart  has  held  many  children 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i    PETER   LANE 3 

ii    PETER'S  GUESTS 26 

in    PETER  LODGES  OUT 36 

iv    THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 55 

v  BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT                      .     81 

vi    "  BOOGE  " 107 

vn    RIVALS 132 

vm     PETER  GIVES  WARNING 150 

ix    A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 160 

x    PETER  HEARS  NEWS 171 

xi  THE  RETURN  OF  "  OLD  KAZOOZER  "   .   187 

xn    AUNT  JANE 195 

xni    A  RAY  OF  HOPE 223 

xiv    AN   ENCOUNTER 236 

xv    JAIL  UNCLES 254 

xvi     FUNNY  CATS 268 

xvn     MORE  FUNNY  CATS 284 

xvin     PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 303 

xix     PETER  GETS  His  CLOCK 312 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Striving  to  get  one  last  breath     .      .         Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

This  much  Peter  saw  before  the  flame  went  out  24 
Tapping  his  bare  foot  on  the  floor  he  sang  .  130 
"  Uncle  Peter  won't  be  gone  very  long  "  .  .  206 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 


THE   JACK-KNIFE    MAN 


PETER  LANE 

GEORGE  RAPP,  the  red-faced  livery- 
man from  town,  stood  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  huge  bear-skin  coat,  his 
round  face  glowing,  looking  down  at  Peter 
Lane,  with  amusement  wrinkling  the  corners 
of  his  eyes. 

"Tell  you  what  I  '11  do,  Peter/'  he  said, 
"I  '11  give  you  thirty-five  dollars  for  the  boat." 

"I  guess  I  won't  sell,  George,"  said  Peter. 
"I  don't  seem  to  care  to." 

He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk,  in 
the  shanty-boat  he  had  spent  the  summer  in 
building.  He  was  a  thin,  wiry  little  man, 
with  yellowish  hair  that  fell  naturally  into 

3 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

•  ringlets,  but  which  was  rather  thin  on  top  of 
his  head.  His  face  was  brown  and  weather- 
seamed.  It  was  difficult  to  guess  just  how 
old  Peter  Lane  might  be.  When  his  eyes 
were  closed  he  looked  rather  old — quite  like  a 
thin,  tired  old  man — but  when  his  eyes  were 
open  he  looked  quite  young,  for  his  eyes  were 
large  and  innocent,  like  the  eyes  of  a  baby, 
and  their  light  blue  suggested  hopefulness 
and  imagination  of  the  boyish,  aircastle-build- 
ing  sort. 

The  shanty-boat  was  small,  only  some 
twenty  feet  in  length,  with  a  short  deck  at 
either  end.  The  shanty  part  was  no  more 
than  fifteen  feet  long  and  eight  feet  wide, 
built  of  thin  boards  and  roofed  with  tar  paper. 
Inside  were  the  bunk — of  clean  white  pine — 
a  home-made  pine  table,  a  small  sheet-iron 
cook-stove,  two  wooden  pegs  for  Peter's  shot- 
gun, a  shelf  for  his  alarm-clock,  a  breadbox, 
some  driftwood  for  the  stove,  and  a  wall  lamp 
with  a  silvered  glass  reflector.  In  one  corner 

4 


PETER  LANE 

was  a  tangle  of  nets  and  trot-lines.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  boat,  but  the  flat-bottomed  hull 
was  built  of  good  two-inch  planks,  well 
caulked  and  tarred.  Tar  was  the  prevailing 
odor.  Peter  bent  over  his  table,  on  which 
the  wheels  and  springs  of  an  alarm-clock 
were  laid  in  careful  rows. 

"Did  you  ever  stop  to  think,  George,  what 
a  mighty  fine  companion  a  clock  like  this  is 
for  a  man  like  I  am?"  he  asked.  "Yes,  sir,  a 
tin  clock  like  this  is  a  grand  thing  for  a 
man  like  me.  I  can  take  this  clock  to  pieces, 
George,  and  mend  her,  and  put  her  together 
again,  and  when  she  's  mended  all  up  she 
needs  mending  more  than  she  ever  did.  A 
clock  like  this  is  always  something  to  look  for- 
ward to." 

"I  might  give  as  much  as  forty  dollars  for 
the  boat,"  said  George  Rapp  temptingly. 

"No,  thank  you,  George,"  said  Peter. 
"And  it  ain't  only  when  you  're  mending  her 
that  a  clock  like  this  is  interesting.  She  's 

5 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

interesting  all  the  time,  like  a  baby.  She 
don't  do  a  thing  you  'd  expect,  all  day  long. 
I  can  mend  her  right  up,  and  wind  her  and 
set  her  right  in  the  morning,  and  set  the 
alarm  to  go  off  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  at  four  o'clock  what  do  you  think 
she  '11  be  doing?  Like  as  not  she  '11  be  point- 
ing at  half-past  eleven.  Yes,  sir!  And  the 
alarm  won't  go  off  until  half-past  two  at 
night,  maybe.  Why  I  mended  this  clock 
once  and  left  two  wheels  out  of  her — " 

"Tell  you  what  I  '11  do,  Peter,"  said  Rapp, 
"I  '11  give  fifty  dollars  for  the  boat,  and  five 
dollars  for  floating  her  down  to  my  new 
place  down  the  river." 

"I  'm  much  obliged,  but  I  guess  I  won't 
sell,"  said  Peter  nervously.  "You  better 
take  off  your  coat,  George,  unless  you  want 
to  hurry  away.  That  stove  is  heating  up. 
She  's  a  wonderful  stove,  that  stove  is.  You 
wouldn't  think,  to  look  at  her  right  now, 
that  she  could  go  out  in  a  minute,  would 

6 


PETER  LANE 

you?  But  she  can.  Why,  when  she  wants 
to,  that  stove  can  start  in  and  get  red  hot  all 
over,  stove-pipe  and  legs  and  all,  until  it's 
so  hot  in  here  the  tar  melts  off  them  nets 
yonder — drips  off  'em  like  rain  off  the  bob- 
wires.  You  'd  think  she  'd  suffocate  me  out 
of  here,  but  she  don't.  No,  sir.  The  very 
next  minute  she  '11  be  as  cold  as  ice.  For  a 
man  alone  as  much  as  I  am  that 's  a  great 
stove,  George." 

"Will  you  sell  me  the  boat,  or  won't  you  ?" 
asked  Rapp. 

"Now,  I  wish  you  would  n't  ask  me  to  sell 
her,  George,"  said  Peter  regretfully,  for  it 
hurt  him  to  refuse  his  friend.  "To  tell  you 
the  honest  truth,  George,  I  can't  sell  her  be- 
cause it  would  upset  my  plans.  I  Ve  got  my 
plans  all  laid  out  to  float  down  river  next 
spring,  soon  as  the  ice  goes  out,  and  when  I 
get  to  New  Orleans  I  'm  going  to  load  this 
boat  on  to  a  ship,  and  I  'm  going  to  take  her 
to  the  Amazon  River,  and  trap  chinchillas.  I 

7 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

read  how  there's  a  big  market  for  chin- 
chilla skins  right  now.  I  'm  goin'  up  the 
Amazon  River  and  then  I  'm  goin'  to  haul  the 
boat  across  to  the  Orinoco  River  and  float 
down  the  Orinoco,  and  then — " 

"You  told  me  last  week  you  were  going 
down  to  Florida  next  spring  and  shoot  alli- 
gators from  this  boat/'  said  Rapp. 

Peter  looked  up  blankly,  but  in  a  moment 
his  cheerfulness  returned. 

"If  I  did  n't  forget  all  about  that!"  he  be- 
gan. "Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  I  did!  That 
would  have  been  a  sad  mistake.  It  looks  to 
me  like  alligator  skin  was  going  out  of 
fashion.  I  'd  be  foolish  to  take  this  boat  all 
the  way  to  Florida  and  then  find  out  there 
was  no  market  for  alligator  skins,  would  n't 
I?" 

"You  would,"  said  Rapp.  "And  you 
might  get  down  there  in  South  America  and 
find  there  was  no  market  for  chinchillas.  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  the  style  was  veering  off 

8 


PETER  LANE 

from  chinchillas  already.     You  'd  better  sell 
me  the  boat,  Peter/' 

"You  know  I  'd  sell  to  you  if  I  would  to 
anybody,  George/'  said  Peter,  pushing  aside 
the  works  of  the  clock,  "but  this  boat  is  a 
sort  of  home  to  me,  George.  It 's  the  only 
home  I  've  got,  since  Jane  don't  want  me 
'round  no  more.  You  're  the  best  friend 
I  've  got,  and  you  've  done  a  lot  for  me — you 
let  me  sleep  in  your  stable  whenever  I  want 
to,  and  you  give  me  odd  jobs,  and  clothes — 
and  I  appreciate  it,  George,  but  a  man  don't 
like  to  get  rid  of  his  home,  if  he  can  help  it. 
I  have  n't  had  a  home  I  could  call  my  own 
since  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  as  you  might 
say,  and  I  'm  going  on  fifty  years  old  now. 
Ever  since  Jane  got  tired  havin'  me  'round 
I  've  been  livin'  in  your  barn,  and  in  old 
shacks,  and  anywheres,  and  now,  when  I  've 
got  a  boat  that 's  a  home  for  me,  and  I  can 
go  traveling  in  her  whenever  I  want  to  go, 
you  want  me  to  sell  her.  No,  I  don't  want 

9 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

to  sell  her,  George.  I  think  maybe  I  '11  start 
her  down  river  to-morrow,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  start  up  the  Missouri  when  the  ice  goes 
out— " 

"I  thought  you  said  Amazon  a  minute 
ago/5  said  Rapp. 

"Well,  now,  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter 
soberly.  "The  fevers  they  catch  down  there 
would  n't  do  my  health  a  bit  of  good. 
Rocky  Mountain  air  is  just  what  I  need.  It 
is  grand  air.  If  I  can  get  seventy  or  eighty 
dollars  together,  and  a  good  rifle  or  two,  I 
may  start  next  spring.  I  always  wanted  to 
have  a  try  at  bear  shootin'.  I  Ve  got 
sev'ral  plans." 

"And  somehow,"  said  Rapp,  who  knew 
Peter  could  no  more  raise  seventy  dollars 
than  freeze  the  sun,  "somehow  you  always 
land  right  back  in  Widow  Potter's  cove  for 
the  winter,  don't  you?  She'll  get  you  yet, 
Peter.  And  then  you  won't  need  this  boat. 
All  you  got  to  do  is  to  ask  her." 

10 


PETER  LANE 

Peter  pushed  the  table  away  and  stood  up, 
a  look  of  trouble  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that, 
George/'  he  said  seriously.  "It  ain't  fair  to 
the  widow  to  connect  up  my  name  and  hers 
that  way.  She  would  n't  like  it  if  she  got  to 
hear  it.  You  know  right  well  she  don't 
think  no  more  of  me  than  she  does  of  any 
other  river-rat  or  shanty-boatman  that  hangs 
around  this  cove  all  summer,  and  yet  you 
keep  saying,  'Widow,  widow,  widow !'  to  me 
all  the  time.  I  wish  you  would  n't,  George." 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  shanty-boat  and 
looked  out.  The  cove  in  which  the  boat  was 
tied  was  on  the  Iowa  side  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  during  the  summer  it  had  been  crowded 
with  a  small  colony  of  worthless  shanty- 
boatmen  and  their  ill-kempt  wives  and  chil- 
dren, direly  poor  and  afflicted  with  all  the 
ills  that  dirt  is  heir  to.  Here,  each  sum- 
mer, they  gathered,  coming  from  up-river  in 
their  shanty-boats  and  floating  on  down* 

11 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

river  just  ahead  of  the  cold  weather  in  the 
fall.  All  summer  their  shanty-boats,  left 
high  and  dry  by  the  receding  high  water  of 
the  June  flood,  stood  on  the  parched  mud, 
and  Peter  looked  askance  on  all  of  them, 
dirty  and  lazy  as  they  were,  but  somehow — 
he  could  not  have  told  you  why — he  made 
friends  with  them  each  summer,  lending 
them  dimes  that  were  never  repaid,  helping 
them  set  their  trot-lines  that  the  women 
might  have  food,  and  even  aiding  in  the 
caulking  of  their  boats  when  his  own  was 
crying  to  be  built. 

All  summer  and  autumn  Peter  had  been 
building  his  shanty-boat,  rowing  loads  of 
lumber  in  his  heavy  skiff  from  the  town  to 
the  spot  he  had  chosen  on  the  Illinois  shore, 
five  miles  above  the  town.  He  had  worked 
on  the  boat,  as  he  did  everything  for  him- 
self, irregularly  and  at  odd  moments,  and  the 
boat  had  been  completed  but  a  few  days  be- 
fore George  Rapp  drove  up  from  town,  hop- 

12 


PETER  LANE 

ing  to  buy  it.  -  Peter  believed  he  loved  soli- 
tude and  usually  chose  a  summer  dwelling- 
place  far  above  town,  but  if  he  had  gone  to 
the  uttermost  solitudes  of  Alaska  he  would 
have  found  some  way  of  mingling  with  his 
fellow-men  and  of  doing  a  good  turn  to 
some  one. 

He  never  dreamed  he  was  associating  with 
the  worthless  shanty-boatmen,  yet,  some- 
how, he  spent  a  good  part  of  his  time  with 
them.  They  were  there,  they  were  willing 
to  accept  aid  of  any  and  all  kinds,  and  on  his 
occasional  trips  to  town  Peter  passed  them. 
This  was  enough  to  draw  him  into  the  en- 
tanglement of  their  woes,  and  to  waste 
thankless  days  on  them.  Yet  he  never 
thought  of  making  one  of  their  colony.  He 
would  row  the  two  miles  to  reach  them,  but 
he  rowed  back  again  each  evening.  It  was 
because  he  was  better  at  heart,  and  not  be- 
cause he  thought  he  was  better,  that  he  re- 
mained aloof  to  this  extent.  In  his  own  esti- 

13 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

mation  he  ranked  himself  even  lower  than 
the  shanty-boatmen,  for  they  at  least  had  the 
social  merit  of  having  families,  while  he  had 
none.  His  sister  Jane  had  told  him  many 
times  just  how  worthless  he  was,  and  he  be- 
lieved it.  He  was  nothing  to  anybody — he 
felt — and  that  is  what  a  tramp  is. 

Once  each  week  or  so  Peter  rowed  to 
town  to  sell  the  product  of  his  jack-knife  and 
such  fish  as  he  caught.  He  was  not  an  en- 
thusiastic fisherman,  but  his  jack-knife,  al- 
ways keen  and  sharp,  was  a  magic  tool  in  his 
hand.  When  he  was  not  making  shapely 
boats  for  the  shanty-boat  kids,  or  whittling 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  whittling,  his  jack- 
knife  shaped  wooden  kitchen  spoons  and 
other  small  household  articles,  or  net-makers' 
shuttles,  out  of  clean  maplewood,  and  these, 
when  he  went  to  town,  he  peddled  from 
door  to  door.  What  he  could  not  sell  he 
traded  for  coffee  or  bacon  at  the  grocery 
stores. 


PETER  LANE 

With  the  coming  of  cool  weather  and  the 
"fall  rise"  of  the  river  the  shanty-boat  colony 
left  the  cove,  to  float  down-river  ahead  of 
the  frost,  and  Peter  hurried  the  comple- 
tion of  his  boat  that  he  might  float  it  across 
to  the  cove.  Rheumatism  often  gave  him  a 
twinge  in  winter  and  when  the  river  was 
"closed"  the  walk  to  town  across  the  ice  was 
cold  and  long.  The  Iowa  side  was  more 
thickly  populated,  too,  for  the  Iowa  "bot- 
tom" was  narrow,  the  hills  coming  quite  to 
the  river  in  places,  while  on  the  Illinois  side 
five  or  six  miles  of  untillable  "bottom" 
stretched  between  the  river  and  the  pros- 
perous hill  farms.  The  Iowa  side  offered 
opportunities  for  corn-husking  and  wood- 
sawing  and  other  odd  jobs  such  as  necessity 
sometimes  drove  Peter  to  seek.  These  op- 
portunities were  the  reasons  Peter  gave  him- 
self, but  the  truth  was  that  Peter  loved 
people.  If  he  was  a  tramp  he  was  a  seden- 
tary tramp,  and  if  he  was  a  hermit  he  was  a 

15 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

socialistic   hermit.     He   liked   his   solitudes 
well  peopled. 

This  early  November  day  Peter  had 
brought  his  shanty-boat  across  the  river  to 
the  cove.  A  fair  up-river  breeze  and  his  rag 
of  a  sail  had  helped  him  fight  the  stiff  cur- 
rent, but  it  had  been  a  hard,  all-day  pull  at 
the  oars  of  his  skiff,  and  when  he  had  towed 
the  boat  into  the  cove  and  had  made  her  fast 
by  looping  his  line  under  the  railway  track 
that  skirted  the  bank,  he  was  wet  and  weary. 
His  tin  breadbox  was  empty  and  he  had  but 
a  handful  of  coffee  left,  but  he  was  too  tired 
to  go  to  town,  and  he  had  nothing  to  trade 
if  he  went,  and  he  knew  by  experience  that 
an  appeal  to  a  farmer — even  to  Widow  Pot- 
ter— meant  wood-sawing,  and  he  was  too 
tired  to  saw  wood.  But  he  was  accustomed 
to  going  without  a  meal  now  and  then,  and 
there  being  nothing  else  to  do,  he  tightened 
his  belt,  made  a  good  fire,  took  off  his 
shoes,  and  dissected  his  alarm-clock.  He 

16 


PETER  LANE 

was  reassembling  it  when  George  Rapp  ar- 
rived. 

George  Rapp  was  a  bluff,  hearty,  loud- 
voiced,  duck-hunting  liveryman.  He  ran 
his  livery-stable  for  a  living  and,  like  many 
other  men  in  the  Mississippi  valley,  he  lived 
for  duck-hunting.  He  owned  the  four  best 
duck  dogs  in  the  county.  He  had  traded 
a  good  horse  for  one  of  them.  Although 
George  Rapp  would  not  have  believed  it,  it 
was  a  blessing  that  he  could  not  hunt  ducks 
the  year  around.  The  summer  and  winter 
months  gave  him  time  to  make  money,  and 
he  was  making  all  he  needed.  Some  of  his 
surplus  he  had  just  paid  for  a  tract  of  low, 
wooded  bottom-land,  in  the  section  where 
ducks  were  most  plentiful  in  their  seasons. 
The  land  was  swamp,  for  the  most  part,  and 
all  so  low  that  the  river  spread  over  it  at 
every  spring  "rise"  and  often  in  the  autumn. 
It  was  cut  by  a  slough  (or  bayou,  as  they  are 
called  farther  south)  and  held  a  rice  lake 

17 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

which  was  no  more  than  a  widening  of  the 
slough.  This  piece  of  property,  far  below 
the  town,  Rapp  had  bought  because  it  was 
a  wild-duck  haunt,  and  for  no  other  reason, 
and  after  looking  it  over  he  wisely  decided 
that  a  shanty-boat  moored  in  the  slough 
would  be  a  better  hunting  cabin  than  one 
built  on  the  shore,  where  it  would  be  flooded 
once,  or  perhaps  twice  a  year,  the  river  leav- 
ing a  deposit  of  rich  yellow  mud  and  general 
dampness  each  time.  But  Peter  would  not 
sell  his  boat,  and  Peter's  boat,  new,  clean  and 
sturdy  of  hull,  was  the  boat  Rapp  wanted. 

"I  wish  you  would  n't  talk  that  way  about 
the  widow,  George/'  said  Peter,  looking  out 
of  the  open  door.  The  liveryman's  team  was 
tied  to  a  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and 
between  the  road  and  the  railway  tracks 
that  edged  the  river  a  wide  corn-field  ex- 
tended. A  cold  drizzle  half  hid  the  hillside 
where  Widow  Potter's  low,  white  farm- 
house, with  its  green  shutters,  stood  in  the 

18 


PETER  LANE 

midst  of  a  decaying  apple  orchard.  "I  wish 
the  widow  lived  farther  off.  There  ain't  no 
place  like  this  cove  to  winter  a  boat,  and 
when  I  'm  here  I  Ve  got  to  saw  wood  for 
her,  and  shuck  corn,  and  do  odd  jobs  for 
her,  and  then  she  lights  into  me.  I  don't 
say  I  'm  any  better  than  a  tramp,  George, 
but  the  way  the  widow  jaws  at  me,  and  the 
things  she  calls  me,  ain't  right.  She  thinks 
I  'm  scum— just  common,  low-down,  worth- 
less scum !  So  that 's  all  there  is  to  that." 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  George  Rapp. 

But  Peter  believed  it.  For  five  years  the 
Widow  Potter  had  kept  a  jealous  eye  on 
Peter  Lane.  Tall  and  thin,  penny-saving 
and  hard-working,  she  had  been  led  a  hard 
life  by  the  late  Mr.  Potter,  who  had  been 
something  rather  worse  than  a  brute,  and 
since  death  had  removed  Mr.  Potter  the 
widow  had  given  Peter  Lane  the  full  bene- 
fit of  her  experienced  tongue  whenever  op- 
portunity offered.  It  was  her  way  of  show- 

19 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

ing  Peter  unusual  attention,  but  Peter  never 
suspected  that  when  she  glared  at  him  and 
told  him  he  was  a  worthless,  good-for-noth- 
ing loafer  and  a  lazy,  paltering,  river-rat, 
and  a  no-account,  idling  vagabond  she  was 
showing  him  a  flattering  partiality.  He 
knew  she  could  make  him  squirm.  It  was 
Love-in-Chapped-Hands,  but  Mrs.  Potter 
herself  did  not  know  she  scolded  Peter  be- 
cause she  liked  him.  She  counted  him  as  a 
poor  stick,  of  little  account  to  himself  or  to 
any  one  else,  but  what  her  mind  could  not, 
her  heart  did  recognize — that  Peter  was  Ro- 
mance. He  was  a  whiff  of  something  that 
had  never  come  into  her  life  before ;  he  was 
a  gentleman,  a  chivalrous  gentleman,  a  gen- 
tleman down  at  the  heel,  but  a  true  gentle- 
man for  all  that. 

"The  way  me  and  her  hates  each  other, 
George,  is  like  cats  and  dogs,"  said  Peter. 
"I  don't  go  near  her  unless  I  have  to,  and 
when  I  do  she  claws  me  all  up." 

20 


PETER  LANE 

"All  right,"  said  Rapp,  laughing,  "but  you 
could  do  a  lot  worse  than  tie  up  to  a  good 
house  and  cook-stove.  If  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  go  housekeeping  and  to  sell  the  boat, 
let  me  know.  I  '11  get  along  home.  It  is 
going  to  be  a  dog  of  a  night." 

"I  won't  change  my  mind  about  the  boat, 
George/'  said  Peter.  "Good  night." 

He  closed  the  door  and  bolted  it. 

"George  means  all  right,"  he  said,  settling 
himself  to  his  task  of  reassembling  his  clock, 
"but  he  's  sort  of  coarse." 

The  storm,  increasing  with  the  coming 
of  night,  darkened  the  interior  of  the  cabin, 
and  Peter  lighted  his  lamp.  As  he  worked 
over  the  clock  the  drizzle  turned  into  a  heavy 
rain  through  which  damp  snowflakes  flut- 
tered, and  the  wind  strengthened  and  turned 
colder,  slapping  the  rain  and  snow  against 
the  small,  four-paned  window  and  freezing 
it  there.  It  was  blowing  up  colder  every 
minute  and  Peter  put  his  handful  of  coffee 

21 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

in  his  coffee-pot  and  set  it  on  the  stove  to 
boil  while  he  completed  his  clock  job.  He 
tested  the  clock  and  found  that  if  he  set  the 
alarm  for  six  o'clock  it  burst  into  song  at 
seventeen  minutes  after  three.  A  thin 
smile  twisted  the  corners  of  his  mouth  hu- 
morously. 

"You  skeesicks!  You  old  skeesicks!"  he 
said  affectionately.  "Ain't  you  a  caution!" 

He  set  the  clock  on  its  shelf  where  it 
ticked  loudly  while  he  drew  his  table  closer 
to  the  bunk,  his  only  seat,  and  put  his  coffee- 
pot and  tin  cup  on  the  table. 

"Well,  now/'  he  said  cheerfully,  "as  long 
as  there  ain't  anything  to  eat  I  might  as 
well  whet  up  my  jack-knife." 

He  whetted  the  large  blade  of  his  knife 
while  he  sipped  the  coffee.  From  time  to 
time  he  put  down  the  tin  cup  and  tried  the 
blade  of  the  knife  on  his  thumb,  and  when 
he  was  satisfied  it  was  so  sharp  any  further 
whetting  meant  a  wire  edge,  he  took  a 

22 


PETER  LANE 

crumpled  newspaper  from  under  the  pillow 
of  his  bunk  and  read  again  the  article  on  the 
increased  demand  for  chinchilla  fur,  but  it 
had  lost  interest.  The  wind  was  slapping 
against  the  side  of  the  boat  in  gusts  and  the 
frost  was  gathering  on  his  windows,  but 
Peter  replenished  his  fire  and  lighted  the 
cheap  cigar  George  Rapp  had  left  on  the 
clock  shelf. 

What  does  a  hermit  do  when  he  is  shut  in 
for  a  long  night  with  a  winter  storm  raging 
outside  ?  Peter  put  his  newspaper  back  un- 
der the  pillow  and  hunted  through  his  drift- 
wood for  a  piece  that  would  do  to  whittle, 
but  had  to  give  that  up  as  a  bad  job.  Then 
his  eyes  alighted  on  the  wooden  pegs  on 
which  his  shot-gun  lay,  and  he  took  down 
the  gun  and  pulled  one  of  the  pegs  from  its 
hole.  He  looked  out  of  the  door,  to  see  that 
his  line  was  holding  securely,  and  slammed 
the  door  quickly,  for  the  night  was  worse, 
the  rain  freezing  as  it  fell  and  the  wind 

23 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

howling  through  the  telegraph  wires.  With 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction  that  he  was  alone,  and 
that  he  had  a  snug  shanty-boat  in  which  to 
spend  the  winter,  Peter  propped  himself  up 
in  his  bunk  and  began  carving  the  head  of 
an  owl  on  the  end  of  the  gun  peg,  screwing 
his  face  to  one  side  to  keep  the  cigar  smoke 
out  of  his  eyes.  He  was  holding  the  half- 
completed  carving  at  a  distance,  to  judge  of 
its  effect,  when  he  heard  a  blow  on  his  door. 
He  hesitated,  like  a  timid  animal,  and  then 
slipped  from  the  bunk  and  let  his  hand  glide 
to  the  shot-gun  lying  on  his  table.  Quietly 
he  swung  the  gun  around  until  the  muzzle 
pointed  full  at  the  door,  and  with  the  other 
hand  he  grasped  his  heavy  stove  poker,  for 
he  knew  that  tramps,  on  such  a  night,  are  not 
dainty  in  seeking  shelter,  and  he  had  no  wish 
to  be  thrown  out  of  his  boat  and  have  the 
boat  floated  away  from  him. 

"Who's  out  there?"  he  shouted,  but  be- 
fore he  could  step  forward  and  bolt  the  door, 

24 


PETER  LANE 

the  latch  lifted  and  the  door,  forced  violently 
inward  by  a  gust  of  wind,  clattered  against 
the  cabin  wall.  A  woman,  one  hand  ex- 
tended, stood  in  the  doorway.  Her  face  was 
deathly  white,  and  her  left  hand  held  the 
hand  of  a  three-year-old  boy.  This  much 
Peter  saw  before  the  flame  of  his  lamp 
flared  high  in  a  smoky  red  and  went  out, 
leaving  utter  darkness. 


II 

PETER'S  GUESTS 

GOME  right  in,  ma'am/5  said  Peter. 
"Step  inside  and  close  the  door.  No- 
body here  's  going  to  hurt  you.  I  '11  put  my 
shoes  on  in  a  minute — " 

He  was  feeling  for  the  matches  on  his  clock 
shelf,  but  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  doing 
or  saying.  The  ghastly  white  face  of  the 
woman  was  still  blazed  on  his  mind. 

"Excuse  me  for  being  bare  foot ;  I  was  n't 
looking  for  callers,"  he  continued  nervously, 
but  he  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  fall- 
ing body  and  a  cry.  He  pushed  one  of  the 
stove  lids  aside,  letting  a  glare  of  red  light 
into  the  room.  The  woman  had  fallen  across 
his  doorsill  and  lay,  half  in  and  half  out  of 

26 


PETER'S  GUESTS 

the  boat,  with  the  boy  crying  as  he  clung  to 
her  relaxed  fingers. 

"Don't,  Mama!  don't!"  the  small  boy 
wailed,  not  understanding. 

Peter  stood,  irresolute.  He  was  a  coward 
before  women ;  they  drove  his  wits  away,  and 
his  first  wild  thought  was  of  flight — of  leap- 
ing over  the  fallen  body — but,  as  he  stood, 
the  alarm-clock,  after  a  preliminary  warning 
cluck,  burst  into  a  loud  jangling  clatter  and 
the  boy,  sore  frightened,  howled  with  all  his 
strength.  That  decided  for  Peter. 

'There,  now,  don't  you  cry,  son!"  he 
begged,  on  his  knees  beside  the  boy  in  an  in- 
stant. "Don't  you  mind  the  racket.  It  ain't 
nothing  but  my  old  funny  alarm-clock.  She 
goes  ofif  that  way  sometimes,  but  she  don't 
mean  any  harm  to  anybody.  No,  sir !  Don't 
you  cry." 

The  boy  wailed,  more  wildly  than  ever, 
calling  on  his  mother  to  get  up. 

"Don't  cry,  your  ma  will  be  all  right!" 
2? 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

urged  Peter.  'That  clock  will  stop  right 
soon,  and  she  won't  begin  again — not  unless 
she  takes  a  notion/' 

The  clock  stopped  ringing  abruptly,  the 
boy  stared  at  it  open-mouthed. 

"That's  a  big  boy!"  said  Peter  approv- 
ingly. "And  don't  you  worry  about  your 
ma.  I  guess  she  '11  be  all  right  in  a  minute. 
You  go  over  by  that  stove  and  warm  your- 
self, and  I  '11  help  your  ma  in,  so  this  rain 
won't  blow  on  her." 

Peter  led  the  boy  to  the  stove,  and  lighted 
his  lamp.  He  put  the  peg  back  in  the  wall, 
and  placed  the  gun  behind  the  boy's  reach 
before  he  turned  to  the  woman. 

She  was  neither  young  nor  old,  but  as  she 
lay  on  the  floor  she  was  ghastly  white,  even 
in  the  glare  from  the  smoking  oil  lamp,  and 
her  lips  were  blue.  Her  cheap  hat  was  wet 
and  weighted  down  with  sleet,  and  the  green 
dye  from  the  trimmings  had  run  down  and 
streaked  her  face.  She  was  fairly  well  clad, 

28 


PETER'S  GUESTS 

but  not  against  the  winter  rain,  and  her  shoes 
were  too  light  and  too  high  of  heel  for  tramp- 
ing a  railway  track.  Peter  saw  she  was  wet 
to  the  skin.  He  bent  down  and  with  his 
knee  against  her  shoulder  moved  her  inside 
the  door  and  closed  it. 

'That 's  hot  in  there,"  said  the  boy,  who 
had  been  staring  into  the  glowing  coals  of 
the  opened  stove.  "I  better  not  put  my  hand 
in  there.  I  '11  burn  my  hand  if  I  put  it  in 
there,  won't  I?" 

"Yes,  indeedy,"  said  Peter,  "but  now  I  got 
to  fix  your  ma  so 's  she  will  be  more  com- 
fortable." 

"I  wish  I  had  some  liquor  or  something," 
he  said,  looking  at  the  woman  helplessly. 
"Brandy  or  whisky  would  be  right  handy, 
and  I  ain't  got  a  drop.  This  ain't  no  case  for 
cold  water ;  she  's  had  too  much  cold  water 
already.  I  wonder  what  coffee  would 
do?" 

He  put  his  coffee-pot  down  among  the  coals 
29 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

of  his  fire  and  while  he  waited  for  it  to  heat, 
he  drew  on  his  shoes^ 

"I  guess  your  ma  will  feel  sort  of  sick  when 
she  wakes  up/'  he  told  the  boy,  "and  I  guess 
she  'd  be  right  glad  if  we  took  off  them  wet 
shoes  and  stockings  of  yours  and  got  your 
feet  nice  and  warm.  You  want  to  be  ready 
to  help  look  after  your  ma.  You  ain't  go- 
ing to  be  afraid  to  let  me,  are  you  ?" 

"No/5  said  the  boy  promptly,  and  held  out 
his  arms  for  Peter  to  take  him.  He  was  a 
solid  little  fellow,  as  Peter  found  when  he 
picked  him  up,  and  his  hair  was  a  tangled 
halo  of  long,  white  kinks  that  burst  out  when 
Peter  pulled  off  the  red  stocking-cap  into 
which  they  had  been  compressed.  From  the 
first  moment  the  boy  snuggled  to  Peter,  set- 
tling himself  contentedly  in  Peter's  arms  as 
affectionate  children  do.  He  had  a  comical 
little  up-tilt  to  his  nose,  and  eyes  of  a  deeper 
blue  than  Peter's,  and  his  face  was  white  but 
covered  with  freckles. 

30 


PETER'S  GUESTS 

'That 's  my  good  foot/'  said  the  boy,  as 
Peter  pulled  off  one  stocking. 

"Well,  it  looks  like  a  mighty  good  one  to 
me,  too,"  said  Peter.  "So  far  as  I  can  see,  it 
is  just  as  good  as  anybody  'd  want." 

"Yes.  It 's  my  hop-on-foot,"  explained 
the  boy.  "The  other  foot  is  the  lame  one. 
It  ain't  such  a  good  foot.  It's  Mama's 
honey-foot." 

"Pshaw,  now !"  said  Peter  gently.  "Well, 
I  '11  be  real  careful  and  not  hurt  it  a  bit." 

He  began  removing  the  shoe  and  stocking 
from  the  lame  foot  with  delicate  care,  and 
the  boy  laughed  delightedly. 

"Ho!  You  don't  have  to  be  careful  with 
it,"  he  laughed,  giving  a  little  kick.  "You 
thought  it  was  a  sore  foot,  didn't  you?  It 
ain't  sore,  it 's  only  lame." 

Peter  put  the  barefoot  boy  on  the  edge  of 
the  bunk  and  hung  the  wet  stockings  over 
his  woodpile.  The  boy  asked  for  the  jack- 
knife  again,  and  Peter  handed  it  to  him. 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"You  just  set  there/'  he  told  the  boy,  "and 
wiggle  your  toes  at  the  stove,  like  they  was 
ten  little  kittens,  and  I'll  see  if  your  ma 
wants  a  drink  of  nice,  hot  coffee/' 

He  poured  the  coffee  into  his  tin  cup  and 
went  to  the  woman,  raised  her  head,  and  held 
the  hot  coffee  to  her  lips.  At  the  first  touch 
of  the  hot  liquid  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
laughed;  a  harsh,  mirthless  laugh,  which 
made  her  strangle  on  the  coffee,  but  when  her 
eyes  met  Peter's  eyes,  the  oath  that  was  on 
her  lips  died  unspoken.  No  woman,  and  but 
few  men,  could  look  into  Peter's  eyes  and 
curse,  and  her  eyes  were  not  those  of  a 
drunkard,  as  Peter  had  supposed  they  would 
be. 

"That 's  all  right/'  she  said.  "I  must  have 
keeled  over,  did  n't  I?  Where  's  Buddy?" 

"He  's  right  over  there  warming  his  little 
feet,  as  nice  as  can  be,"  said  Peter.  "And  he 
was  real  concerned  about  you." 

"I  wouldn't  have  come  in,  but  for  him," 


PETER'S  GUESTS 

said  the  woman,  trying  to  straighten  her  hat. 
"I  thought  maybe  he  could  get  a  bite  to  eat. 
It  don't  matter  much  what,  he  ain't  eat  since 
noon.  A  piece  of  bread  would  do  him  'til  we 
get  to  town."  She  leaned  back  wearily 
against  the  pile  of  nets  in  the  corner. 

"I  want  butter  on  it.  Bread,  and  butter 
on  it,"  said  Buddy  promptly. 

'There,  now !"  said  Peter  accusingly.  "I 
might  have  knowed  it  was  foolish  to  let  my- 
self run  so  low  on  food.  A  man  can't  tell 
when  food  is  going  to  come  in  handiest,  and 
here  I  went  and  let  myself  run  clean  out  of  it. 
But  don't  you  worry,  ma'am,"  he  hastened  to 
add,  "I  '11  get  some  in  no  time.  Just  you  let 
me  help  you  over  on  to  my  bunk.  I  ain't  got 
a  chair  or  I  'd  offer  it  to  you  whilst  I  run  up 
to  one  of  my  neighbors  and  get  you  a  bite  to 
eat.  I  Ve  got  good  neighbors.  That 's  one 
thing!" 

The  woman  caught  Peter  by  the  arm  and 
drew  herself  up,  laughing  weakly  at  her 

33 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

weakness.  She  tottered,  but  Peter  led  her  to 
the  bunk  with  all  the  courtesy  of  a  Raleigh 
escorting  an  Elizabeth,  and  she  dropped  on 
the  edge  of  the  bunk  and  sat  there  warming 
her  hands  and  staring  at  the  stove.  She 
seemed  still  near  exhaustion. 

"If  you  '11  excuse  me,  now,  ma'am,"  said 
Peter,  when  he  had  made  sure  she  was  not 
going  to  faint  again,  "I  '11  just  step  across  to 
my  neighbor's  and  get  something  for  the  boy 
to  eat.  I  won't  probably  be  gone  more  than 
a  minute,  and  whilst  I  'm  gone  I  '11  arrange 
for  a  place  for  me  to  sleep  to-night.  You 
had  n't  ought  to  make  that  boy  walk  no  fur- 
ther to-night.  It's  a  real  bad  night  out- 
side." 

"That 's  all  right.  I  don't  want  to  chase 
you  out,"  said  the  woman. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Peter  politely.  "I  fre- 
quently sleep  elsewheres.  It  '11  be  no  trouble 
at  all  to  make  arrangements." 

He  put  more  wood  in  the  stove,  opened  the 

34 


PETER'S  GUESTS 

dampers,  and  lighted  his  lantern.  Then  he 
pinned  his  coat  close  about  his  neck  with  a 
blanket  pin,  and,  as  he  passed  the  clock  shelf, 
slipped  the  alarm  swiftly  from  its  place  and 
hid  it  beneath  his  coat. 

"I  '11  be  right  back,  as  soon  as  I  can,"  he 
said,  and,  drawing  his  worn  felt  hat  down 
over  his  eyes,  he  stepped  out  hastily  and 
slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Why  did  the  man  take  the  clock?"  asked 
the  boy  as  the  door  closed. 

"I  guess  he  thought  I  'd  steal  it,"  said  the 
woman  languidly. 

"Would  you  steal  it?"  asked  the  boy. 

"I  guess  so,"  the  woman  answered,  and 
closed  her  eyes, 


Ill 

PETER  LODGES  OUT 

AS  Peter  crossed  the  icy  plank  that 
led  from  his  boat  to  the  railway  em- 
bankment he  tried  to  whistle,  but  the  wind 
was  too  strong  and  sharp,  and  he  drew  his 
head  between  his  shoulders  and  closed  his 
mouth  tightly.  He  had  understated  the  dis- 
tance to  Widow  Potter's  when  he  had  said  it 
was  "just  across/'  In  fair  weather  and 
daylight  he  often  cut  across  the  corn-field, 
but  on  such  a  night  as  this  the  trip  meant  a 
long  plod  up  the  railway  track  until  he  came 
to  the  crossing,  and  then  a  longer  tramp  back 
the  slushy  road,  a  good  half  mile  in  all. 
When  he  turned  in  at  Widow  Potter's  open 
gate  a  great  yellow  dog  came  rushing  at  him, 
barking,  but  a  word  from  Peter  silenced  him 

36 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

and  the  dog  fell  behind  obediently  but  watch- 
fully, and  followed  Peter  to  where  the  light 
shone  through  the  widow's  kitchen  window. 
Peter  rapped  on  the  door. 

"Who's  out  there?"  Mrs.  Potter  called 
sharply.  "I  got  a  gun  in  here,  and  I  ain't 
afraid  to  use  it  If  you  're  a  tramp,  you  'd 
better  git!" 

"It's  Peter  Lane,"  Peter  called,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  above  the  wind.  "I  want 
to  buy  a  couple  of  eggs  off  you,  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter." 

The  door  opened  the  merest  crack  and  Mrs. 
Potter  peered  out.  She  did  not  have  a  gun, 
but  she  held  a  stove  poker.  When  she  saw 
Peter  she  opened  the  door  wide.  It  was  a 
brusk  welcome. 

"Of  all  the  shiftlessness  I  ever  heard  of, 
Peter  Lane,"  she  said  angrily,  "you  beat  all ! 
Comin'  for  eggs  this  time  of  night  when  your 
boat 's  been  in  the  cove  nobody  knows  how 
long.  I  suppose  it  never  come  into  your 

37 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

head  to  get  eggs  until  you  got  hungry  for 
them,  did  it?" 

Peter  closed  the  door  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  it.  At  all  times  he  feared  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter, but  especially  when  he  gave  her  some 
cause  for  reproof. 

"I  had  some  company  drop  in  on  me  unex- 
pected, Mrs.  Potter/'  he  said  apologetically. 
"If  I  had  n't,  I  would  n't  have  bothered  you. 
I  hate  it  worse  'n  you  do." 

"Tramps,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  widow. 
"You  're  that  shiftless  you  'd  give  the  shoes 
off  your  feet  and  the  food  out  of  your  mouth 
to  feed  any  good-for-nothing  that  come 
camping  on  you.  You  don't  get  my  good 
eggs  to  feed  such  trash,  Peter  Lane !  Win- 
ter eggs  are  worth  money." 

"I  thought  to  pay  for  them,"  said  Peter 
meekly.  "I  would  n't  ask  them  of  you  any 
other  way,  Mrs.  Potter." 

"Well,  if  you  've  got  the  money  I  suppose 
I  Ve  got  to  let  you  have  them,"  said  the 

38 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

widow  grudgingly.  "Eggs  is  worth  three 
cents  apiece,  and  I  hate  to  have  'em  fed  to 
tramps.  How  many  do  you  want  to  buy?" 

Peter  shifted  from  one  foot  to  another  un- 
comfortably. "Well,  now,  I  'm  what  you 
might  call  a  little  short  of  ready  money  to- 
night," he  said.  "I  thought  maybe  I  might 
come  over  and  saw  some  wood  for  you  to- 
morrow— " 

"And  so  you  can/'  said  Mrs.  Potter 
promptly,  "and  when  the  wood  is  sawed  they 
will  be  paid  for,  in  eggs  or  money,  and  not 
until  it  is  sawed.  I  'm  not  going  to  encour- 
age you  to  run  into  debt.  You  're  shiftless 
enough  now,  goodness  knows." 

Peter  tried  to  smile  and  ignored  the  accu- 
sation. 

"There  couldn't  be  anything  fairer  than 
that,"  he  said.  "Nobody  ought  to  object  to 
that  sort  of  arrangement  at  all.  That 's  real 
business-like.  Only,  there 's  a  small  boy 
amongst  the  company  that  dropped  in  on  me 

39 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

and  he 's  only  about  so  high — "  Peter 
showed  a  height  that  would  have  been  small 
for  an  infant  dwarf.  "He  's  a  real  nice  lit- 
tle fellow,  and  if  you  was  ever  a  boy  that  high, 
and  crying  because  you  wanted  something  to 
eat— " 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  I"  snapped  Mrs. 
Potter.  "If  there  is  a  child  down  there  he 
ought  to  be  in  bed  long  ago/' 

"Yes'm,"  agreed  Peter  meekly.  "That 's 
so.  You  would  n't  put  even  a  dog  that  size 
to  bed  hungry.  So,  if  you  could  let  me  have 
about  half-a-dozen  eggs,  I  '11  go  right  back." 

"Six  eggs  at  three  cents  is  eighteen  cents," 
said  Mrs.  Potter  firmly,  looking  Peter  di- 
rectly in  the  eye.  She  was  not  bad  looking. 
Her  cheek  bones  were  rather  high  and  promi- 
nent and  her  cheeks  hollow,  and  she  had  a 
strong  chin  for  a  woman,  but  the  downward 
twist  of  discouragement  that  had  marked  her 
mouth  during  her  later  married  years  had 
already  disappeared,  giving  place  to  a  firm- 
40 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

ness  that  told  she  was  well  able  to  manage 
her  own  affairs.  Peter  drew  his  alarm-clock 
from  beneath  his  coat  and  stood  it  on  the 
kitchen  table. 

"I  brought  along  this  alarm-clock,"  he 
said,  "so  you  'd  know  I  'd  come  back  like  I 
say  I  will.  She  's  a  real  good  clock.  I  paid 
eighty  cents  for  her  when  she  was  new,  and 
I  just  fixed  her  up  fresh  to-day.  She 's 
running  quite — quite  a  little,  since  I  fixed 
her." 

Mrs.  Potter  did  not  look  at  the  clock.  She 
looked  at  Peter. 

"So!"  she  exclaimed.  "So  that's  what 
you  've  come  to,  Peter  Lane !  Pawnin'  your 
goods  and  chattels !  That 's  what  shiftless 
folks  always  come  to  in  the  end." 

"And  so,  if  you  '11  let  me  have  half-a-dozen 
eggs,  and  maybe  some  pieces  of  bread  and 
butter  and  a  handful  of  coffee,"  said  Peter, 
"I  '11  leave  the  clock  right  here  as  security 
that  I'll  come  up  first  thing  in  the  morning 

41 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

and  saw  wood  'til  you  tell  me  I  've  sawed 
enough/' 

Mrs.  Potter  took  the  clock  in  her  hand  and 
looked  at  Peter. 

"How  old  did  you  say  that  boy  is?"  she 
asked. 

"Coin'  on  three,  I  should  judge.  He  's  a 
real  nice  little  feller/'  said  Peter  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Potter  put  the  clock  on  her  kitchen 
table. 

"Fiddlesticks!  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it.  Who  else  have  you  got  down  there?" 

"Just  his — his  parent,"  said  Peter,  blush- 
ing. "I  wisht  you  could  see  that  little  feller. 
Maybe  I  '11  bring  him  up  here  to-morrow  and 
let  you  see  him." 

"Maybe  you  won't !"  said  the  widow.  "If 
you  're  hungry  you  can  set  down  and  I  '11  fry 
you  as  many  eggs  as  you  want  to  eat,  but  you 
can't  come  over  me  with  no  story  about  vis- 
itors bringin'  you  children  on  a  night  like 
this!  No,  sir!  You  don't  get  none  of -my 

42 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

eggs  for  your  worthless  tramps.  Shall  I  fry 
you  some?" 

Peter  looked  down  and  frowned.  Then 
he  raised  his  head  and  looked  full  in  the 
widow's  eyes  and  smiled.  Nothing  but  the 
direct  need  could  have  induced  him  to  smile 
thus  at  the  widow  for  he  knew  and  feared  the 
result.  When,  once  or  twice  before,  he  had 
looked  into  her  eyes  and  smiled  in  this  way — 
unthinkingly — she  had  fluttered  and  trembled 
like  a  bird  in  the  presence  of  an  overmaster- 
ing fascination,  and  Peter  did  not  like  that. 
Such  power  frightened  him.  The  widow, 
scolding  and  condemning,  he  could  escape, 
but  the  widow  fluttering  and  trembling,  was 
a  thing  to  be  afraid  of.  It  made  him  flutter 
and  tremble,  too. 

When  Peter  smiled  the  widow  drew  in  her 
breath  sharply. 

"Six — six  eggs — will  six  eggs  be  all  you 
want?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Peter,  still  smiling,  "unless 

43 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

you  could  spare  some  bread  and  butter.  He 
'specially  asked  for  butter,"  and  then  he 
looked  down.  The  widow  drew  another  long 
breath. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  got  a  boy  down 
there,  and  I  don't  believe  you  Ve  got  a  vis- 
itor that  deserves  nothing,"  she  said  crossly. 
She  was  herself  again.  "I  know  you  from 
hair  to  sole-leather,  Peter  Lane,  and  if  any 
worthless  scamp  came  and  camped  on  you, 
you  'd  lie  your  head  off  to  get  food  for  him, 
and  that 's  what  I  think  you  're  doing  now, 
but  there  ain't  no  way  of  telling.  If  so  be 
you  have  got  a  boy  down  there  I  don't  want 
him  to  go  hungry,  but  if  it 's  just  some  worth- 
less tramp,  I  hope  these  eggs  choke  him. 
You  ain't  got  a  mite  of  common  sense  in  you. 
You  're  too  soft,  and  that 's  why  you  don't 
get  on.  You  'd  come  up  here  to-morrow  and 
do  a  dollar's  worth  of  wood  sawing  for 
eighteen  cents'  worth  of  eggs,  and  then  give 
the  eggs  to  the  first  tramp  that  asked  you. 

44 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

What  you  ought  to  have  is  a  wife.  You 
ought  to  have  a  wife  with  a  mind  like  a 
hatchet  and  a  tongue  like  a  black-snake  whip, 
and  you  might  be  worth  shucks,  anyway. 
You  just  provoke  me  beyond  patience." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Peter  nervously. 

Mrs.  Potter  was  cutting  thick,  enticing 
slices  from  a  big  loaf  and  spreading  them 
with  golden  butter. 

"I  reckon  you  want  jam  on  this  bread?" 
she  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes,  thank  you!"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  maybe  you  have  got  a  boy  down 
there,"  said  Mrs.  Potter  reluctantly. 
"You  M  be  ashamed  to  ask  for  jam  if  you 
had  n't.  If  you  had  a  wife  and  she  was  any 
account  you  'd  have  bread  and  jam  when  boys 
come  to  see  you.  But  I  do  pity  the  woman 
that  gets  you,  Peter  Lane!  No  woman  on 
this  earth  but  a  widow  that  has  had  experi- 
ence with  men-folks  could  ever  make  any- 
thing out  of  you." 

45 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter  put  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  ready 
for  instant  flight.  When  he  smiled  on  Mrs. 
Potter  something  like  this  usually  resulted 
and  that  was  why  he  tried  it  so  seldom.  It 
was  he,  now,  who  trembled  and  fluttered. 

"I  'm  not  thinking  of  getting  married  at 
all,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  afford  to,  any- 
way." 

"You  need  n't  think,  just  because  you  are 
no-account,  some  fool  woman  would  n't  take 
you,"  snapped  Mrs.  Potter.  "Look  at  what 
my  first  husband  was.  Women  marry  all 
sorts  of  trash." 

Peter  watched  the  progress  of  the  bread 
and  jam,  trusting  its  preparation  would  not 
be  delayed  long. 

"If  they  're  asked,"  said  Mrs.  Potter.  She 
seemed  very  cross  about  something.  She 
wrapped  the  slices  of  bread  in  a  clean  sheet 
of  paper  from  her  table  drawer,  folding  in 
the  ends  of  the  paper  angrily.  "But  they 
don't  do  the  asking,"  she  added. 
46 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

Peter  took  the  parcel,  and  slipped  the  six 
clean  white  eggs  into  his  pocket.  He  wanted 
to  get  away,  but  Mrs.  Potter  stopped  him. 

"I  suppose,  if  there  is  a  boy  down  there, 
I  Ve  got  to  give  you  what 's  left  of  my  roast 
chicken,"  she  grumbled,  "or  you  '11  be  com- 
ing up  here  about  the  time  I  get  into  bed, 
routing  me  out  for  more  victuals.  If  I  had 
a  husband,  and  he  was  like  you,  and  he  had 
a  mind  to  feed  all  the  tramps  in  the  county, 
he  would  n't  have  to  rout  me  out  of  bed  to  do 
it.  He  could  go  to  the  cupboard  himself, 
and  feed  them/' 

"Now,  that  clock/'  said  Peter  hastily,  "if 
I  was  you  I  would  n't  depend  too  much  on  her 
alarm  to  get  you  up.  I  can't  say  she  's  regu- 
lated just  the  way  I  'd  like  to  have  her  yet. 
And  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  your  clock !"  said  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter, but  Peter  had  slipped  out  of  the  door, 
closing  it  behind  him.  The  widow  held  the 
clock  in  her  hand  for  a  full  minute,  and  then 

47 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

set  it  gently  beside  her  own  opulent  Seth 
Thomas. 

"I  dare  say  you  're  about  as  well  regulated 
as  he  is,"  she  said,  "and  that  ain't  saying 
much  for  either  of  you.  He  ain't  got  the 
eyes  to  see  through  a  grindstone!" 

When  Peter  returned  to  the  boat,  the  boy 
was  busily  trying  to  work  one  of  the  trot- 
line  hooks  out  of  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket,  but 
the  woman  had  dropped  back  on  the  bunk  and 
her  eyes  were  closed.  She  opened  them 
when  the  rush  of  cold  air  from  the  door 
struck  her  face,  and  looked  at  Peter  listlessly. 

"I  guess  you  don't  feel  like  cooking  a  couple 
of  eggs,"  said  Peter,  "so  if  you  '11  excuse  me 
remaining  here  awhile,  I'll  do  it  for  you. 
I  'm  a  fair  to  middling  fried-egg  cook.  Son, 
you  let  me  get  that  hook  out  of  you,  and  then 
see  if  you  can  eat  five  or  six  of  these  pieces  of 
bread  and  jam.  I  could  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  then  I  could  wind  up  with  a  piece  of 
chicken  like  this." 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

"I  hooked  myself/5  the  boy  explained. 

"I  should  say  you  did/'  said  Peter.  "You 
want  to  look  out  for  these  hooks,  they  bite  a 
boy  like  a  cat-fish  stinger,  and  that  ain't  much 
fun.  I  'm  right  glad  you  dropped  in/'  he 
said  to  the  woman,  "because  I  've  got  such 
good  neighbors.  It 's  almost  impossible  to 
keep  them  from  forcing  more 'eggs  and  but- 
ter and  such  things  on  me  than  I  'd  know 
what  to  do  with.  'Just  come  on  up  when  you 
want  anything/  they  are  always  saying,  'and 
help  yourself/  So  it 's  quite  nice  to  have 
somebody  drop  in  and  give  me  a  chance  to 
show  my  neighbors  I  ain't  too  proud  to  take 
a  few  eggs  and  such.  It  would  surprise  you 
to  see  how  eager  they  are  that  way/' 

He  scraped  the  butter  from  one  of  the 
pieces  of  bread,  needing  it  to  fry  the  eggs  in, 
and  he  worked  as  he  talked,  breaking  the 
eggs  into  the  frying-pan  and  watching  that 
they  were  cooked  to  a  turn. 

"I  certainly  am  blessed  with  nice  neigh- 

49 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

bors,"  he  said.  'There  's  a  widow  lady  lives 
a  step  or  two  beyond  the  railroad,  and  seems 
as  if  she  could  n't  do  enough  for  me.  She 
just  lays  herself  out  to  see  that  I  'm  over- 
fed. Do  you  feel  like  you  could  eat  a  small 
part  of  chicken?" 

The  woman  let  her  eyes  rest  on  Peter 
some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"I  ought  to  feel  hungry,  but  I  don't/'  she 
said. 

"Well,  maybe  a  soft-boiled  egg  would  be 
better.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that/' 
said  Peter  as  if  he  had  been  reproved. 
"You  '11  have  to  excuse  me  for  boiling  it  in 
the  coffee-pot,  I  've  been  so  busy  planning  a 
trip  I  'm  going  to  take  I  have  n't  had  time  to 
lay  in  much  tinware  yet." 

"Where  did  you  take  the  clock?"  asked  the 
boy  suddenly. 

Peter  reddened  under  his  tan. 

"That  clock?"  he  said  hesitatingly. 
"Where  did  I  take  that  clock?  Well,  the 

50 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

fact  is — the  fact  is  that  clock  is  a  nuisance. 
That 's  it,  she  's  a  nuisance.  I  been  meaning 
to  throw  that  clock  into  the  river  for  I  don't 
know  how  long.  Unless  you  are  used  to  that 
clock  you  just  can't  sleep  where  she  is. 
'Rattelty  bang!'  she  goes  just  whenever  she 
takes  a  notion,  like  a  dish-pan  falling  down- 
stairs, all  times  of  the  night.  So  I  just 
thought,  as  long  as  I  was  going  out  anyway, 
'Now  's  a  good  time  to  get  rid  of  the  old 
nuisance !' ' 

"Mama  would  steal  the  clock,"  said  the 
boy. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that!"  said  Peter. 
"You  come  here  and  eat  these  two  nice  eggs. 
I  hope,  ma'am,  you  don't  think  I  had  any  such 
notion  as  that.  When  I  have  visitors  they 
can  steal  everything  in  the  boat,  and  welcome. 
I  mean — " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  woman. 
"You  're  the  white  kind." 

"I  'm  glad  you  look  at  it  that  way,"  said 

51 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter.  'The  boy,  he  don't  understand  such 
things,  he  's  so  young  yet.  Maybe  you  'd 
feel  better  if  I  propped  you  up  with  the  pillow 
a  little  better.  I  '11  lay  this  extry  blanket  on 
the  foot  of  the  bunk  here  in  case  it  should  get 
cold  during  the  night.  You  look  nice  and 


warm  now." 


"I  'm  burning  up,"  said  the  woman. 

"I  judge  you  've  got  a  slight  fever,"  said 
Peter.  "I  often  get  them  when  I  get  over- 
took by  the  rain  when  I  'm  out  for  a  stroll." 

"I  '11  be  all  right  if  I  can  lie  here  for  an 
hour  or  so,"  said  the  woman  listlessly. 
'Then  Buddy  and  me  will  get  on.  Is  it  far 
to  town?" 

"Now,  you  and  that  boy  ain't  going  an- 
other step  to-night,"  said  Peter  firmly. 
"You  're  going  to  stay  right  here.  You 
won't  discommode  me  a  bit  for  I  Ve  made 
arrangements  to  sleep  elsewhere,  like  I  often 
do." 

He  gave  the  woman  the  egg  in  his  tin  cup, 
52 


PETER  LODGES  OUT 

and  while  she  ate  he  put  his  trot-lines  out- 
side on  the  small  forward  deck  so  the  boy 
might  get  in  no  more  trouble  with  the  hooks. 
Then  he  removed  the  shells  from  his  shot- 
gun, put  the  remaining  eggs  and  bread  and 
butter  and  chicken  in  his  tin  box,  and  pinned 
his  coat  collar. 

"I  'm  going  up  to  the  place  I  arranged  to 
sleep  at,  now/'  he  said,  "and  I  hope  you  '11 
find  everything  comfortable  and  nice. 
There  's  more  wood  there  by  the  stove,  and 
before  I  come  in  in  the  morning  I  '11  knock 
on  the  door,  so  I  guess  maybe  you  'd  better 
take  off  as  many  of  them  wet  clothes  as  you 
wish  to.  You  '11  take  a  worse  cold  if  you 
don't." 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  too  weak,"  said  the 
woman.  "If  you  will  just  give  me  some  help 
with  my  dress — " 

But  Peter  fled.  He  was  a  strange  mix- 
ture, was  Peter,  and  he  fled  as  a  blushing  boy 
would  have  fled,  not  to  stop  running  until 

53 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

he  was  far  up  the  railway  track.  Then  he 
realized,  by  the  chill  of  the  sleety  rain  against 
his  head  where  the  hair  was  thinnest,  that 
he  had  forgotten  his  hat,  and  he  laughed  at 
himself. 

"Pshaw,  I  guess  that  woman  scared  me," 
he  said. 

He  did  not  follow  the  path  to  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter's kitchen  door  this  time,  but  skirted  the 
orchard  and  climbed  a  rail  fence  into  the  cow 
pasture.  He  made  a  wide  circle  through  the 
pasture  and  climbed  another  fence  into  the 
yard  behind  the  barn,  where  a  haystack 
stood.  He  was  trembling  with  cold  by  this 
time,  and  wet  through,  and  the  water  froze 
stiff  in  his  coat  cuffs,  but  he  dug  deep  into 
the  base  of  the  haystack  and  crawled  into 
its  shelter,  drawing  the  sweet  hay  close 
around  him.  For  awhile  he  lay  with  chat- 
tering teeth,  his  knees  close  under  his  chin, 
and  then  he  felt  warmer,  and  straightened 
his  knees.  The  next  moment  he  was  asleep. 

54 


IV 

THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

WHEN  Peter  crawled  out  of  his  hay- 
stack the  next  morning  the  weather 
was  intensely  cold  and  the  wind  was  gone. 
Every  twig  and  weed  sparkled  with  the  ice 
frozen  upon  it.  He  had  needed  no  alarm- 
clock  to  awaken  him,  for  an  uneasy  sense  of 
discomfort  gradually  opened  his  eyes,  and  he 
found  his  knees  aching  and  his  whole  body 
chilled  and  stiff.  He  climbed  the  fence  into 
the  farm-house  yard.  He  had  no  doubt  now 
that  he  was  hungry,  and  he  was  well  aware 
that  his  head  was  cold  where  the  hair  was 
thin.  Indeed,  his  hands  and  feet  were  cold 
too.  But  he  tightened  his  belt  another  hole 
and  made  for  Mrs.  Potter's  woodshed. 
Among  the  chips  and  sawdust  he  found  a 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

piece  of  white  cloth  which,  had  he  known  it 
was  the  remains  of  one  of  Mrs.  Potter's  petti- 
coats, he  would  have  left  where  it  lay,  but  not 
knowing  this  he  made  a  makeshift  turban  by 
knotting  the  corners,  and  drew  it  well  down 
over  his  ears,  like  a  nightcap.  It  was  more 
comfortable  than  the  raw  morning  air,  and 
Peter  had  no  more  pride  than  a  tramp. 

He  found  the  wood  saw  hanging  in  the 
shed,  a  piece  of  bacon-rind  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  the  ice-covered  sawbuck  in  the  yard, 
and  he  set  to  work  on  the  pile  of  pin-oak  as 
if  he  meant  to  earn  his  clock,  his  breakfast 
and  a  full  day's  wages  before  Mrs.  Potter 
got  out  of  bed.  The  exercise  warmed  him, 
but  he  kept  one  eye  on  the  top  of  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter's kitchen  chimney,  looking  for  the  thin 
smoke  signal  telling  that  breakfast  was  under 
way.  The  pile  of  stove-wood  grew  and  grew 
under  his  saw  but  still  the  house  gave  no 
sign  of  life.  The  sun  climbed,  making  the 
icy  coating  of  trees  and  fences  glow  with 

56 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

color,  and  still  Mrs.  Potter's  kitchen  chimney 
remained  hopelessly  smokeless. 

"That  woman  must  have  a  good,  clear  con- 
science or  she  could  n't  sleep  like  that/5  said 
the  hungry  Peter,  "but  I  've  got  folks  on  my 
hands,  and  I  Ve  got  to  see  to  them.  If  this 
ain't  enough  wood  to  satisfy  her  I  '11  saw 
some  more  when  I  come  back." 

He  was  worried,  for  no  smoke  was  coming 
from  the  stovepipe  that  protruded  from  the 
roof  of  his  shanty-boat.  When  he  reached 
the  boat  he  knocked  three  times  without  an- 
swer before  he  opened  the  door  cautiously 
and  peered  in,  ready  to  retreat  should  his  en- 
trance be  inopportune.  The  woman  was  ly- 
ing where  he  had  left  her,  still  in  her  wet 
clothes,  and  the  cabin  was  icy  cold.  The  boy, 
when  Peter  opened  the  door,  was  standing 
on  the  table  trying  to  lift  the  shot-gun  from 
its  pegs.  His  face  showed  he  had  made  a  trip 
to  the  bread  and  jam.  He  looked  down  at 
Peter  as  the  door  opened. 

57 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"'Mama 's  funny,"  he  said,  and  reached 
for  the  gun  again. 

The  woman  was  indeed  "funny."  She 
was  in  the  grip  of  a  raging  fever.  Her 
cheeks  were  violently  red  and  against  them 
the  green  dye  from  her  hat  made  hideous 
streaks.  Her  hair  had  fallen  and  lay  in  a 
tangle  over  the  pillow,  with  the  rain-soaked 
hat  still  clinging  to  a  strand.  As  she  moved 
her  head  the  hat  moved  with  it,  giving  her 
a  drunken,  disreputable  appearance.  She 
talked  rapidly  and  angrily,  repeating  the 
names  of  men,  of  "Susie"  and  "Buddy," 
stopping  to  sing  a  verse  of  a  popular  song, 
breaking  into  profanity  and  laughing  loudly. 
All  human  emotions  except  tears  flowed  from 
her,  and  Peter  stood  with  his  back  against 
the  door,  uncertain  what  to  do.  The  table, 
tipping  suddenly  and  throwing  the  boy  to  the 
floor,  decided  him. 

"There,  now,  you  little  rascal!"  he  said, 
gathering  the  weeping  boy  in  his  arms. 

58 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

"You  might  have  broke  your  arm,  or  your 
leg.  You  ought  n't  to  stand  on  a  table  you 
ain't  acquainted  with,  that  way." 

"I  wanted  to  fall  down/'  said  the  boy,  ceas- 
ing his  tears  at  once.  "I  like  to  fall  off 
tables  I  ain't  'quainted  with." 

"Well,  I  just  bet  you  do!"  said  Peter. 
"You  look  like  that  sort  of  a  boy  to  me. 
Does  your  ma  act  funny  like  this  often? 
You  poor  young  'un,  I  hope  not !" 

"No,"  said  Buddy. 

Peter  looked  at  the  woman,  studying  her. 
It  might  have  been  possible  that  she  was  in- 
sane, but  the  vivid  red  of  her  cheeks  con- 
vinced him  she  was  delirious  with  fever. 
Her  hat,  askew  over  one  ear,  gave  Peter  a 
feeling  of  shame  for  her,  and  he  put  Buddy 
down  and  walked  to  the  bunk.  He  saw  that 
the  hat  pin  had  made  a  cruel  scratch  along 
her  cheek. 

"Now,  ma'am/5  he  said,  "I  'm  just  going  to 
help  you  off  with  this  hat,  because  it 's  get- 

59 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

ting  all  mashed  up,  and  it  ain't  needed  in  the 
house/' 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  take  the  hat,  but 
the  woman  raised  herself  on  one  arm,  and 
with  the  other  fist  struck  Peter  full  in  the 
face,  so  that  he  staggered  back  against  the 
table,  while  she  swore  at  him  viciously. 

"You  had  n't  ought  to  do  that,"  he  said  re- 
provingly ;  "I  was  n't  going  to  hurt  you." 

"I  know  you!"  shouted  the  woman  in  a 
rage.  "I  know  you!  You  can't  come  any 
of  that  over  me !  You  took  Susie,  you  beast, 
but  you  don't  get  Buddy.  Let  me  get  at 
you!" 

She  tried  to  clamber  from  the  bunk,  but 
fell  back  coughing. 

"Now,  you  are  absolutely  wrong,  ma'am," 
said  Peter  earnestly.  "You  've  got  me 
placed  entirely  wrong.  I  ain't  the  man  you 
think  I  am  at  all.  I  'm  the  man  that  got 
something  for  Buddy  to  eat  last  night.  You 
recall  that,  don't  you?" 
60 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

The  woman  looked  at  him  craftily. 

"Where's  Buddy?"  she  asked. 

"I  'm — I  'm  cooking  eggs,  Mama/'  said 
Buddy  promptly,  and  Peter  turned. 

"Well,  you  little  rascal!'5  cried  Peter. 
"You  must  be  hungry." 

The  boy  had  put  the  frying-pan  on  the 
floor  while  Peter's  back  was  turned,  and  had 
broken  the  remaining  eggs  in  it.  Much  of 
the  omelet  had  missed  the  pan,  decorating 
Buddy's  clothes  and  the  floor.  The  woman 
seemed  satisfied  when  she  heard  the  boy's 
voice,  and  closed  her  eyes,  and  Peter  took  the 
opportunity  to  kindle  the  fire  and  start  the 
breakfast.  He  cooked  the  omelet,  the  condi- 
tion of  the  eggs  suggesting  that  as  the  only 
method  of  preparing  them.  The  woman 
opened  her  eyes  as  the  pleasant  odor  filled 
the  cabin,  and  followed  every  movement 
Peter  made. 

"I  know  you !  You  '11  run  me  out  of  town, 
will  you?"  she  cried  suddenly.  "All  right, 

61 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

I  '11  go!  I  '11  go!  That 's  what  I  get  for  be- 
ing decent.  You  know  I  've  been  decent 
since  you  took  Susie  away  from  me,  and 
that's  what  I  get.  Run  me  out — what  do 
I  care!  I '11  go." 

She  put  her  feet  to  the  floor,  but  another 
coughing  fit  threw  her  back  against  the  pil- 
low, and  when  she  recovered  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"Don't  take  her!"  she  pleaded.  "I'll  be 
decent — don't !  I  tell  you  I  '11  be  decent. 
Don't  I  feed  her  plenty?  Don't  I  dress  her 
warm?  Ain't  she  going  to  school  like  the 
other  kids?  Don't  take  her.  Before  God, 
I  '11  be  decent.  Come  here,  Susie !" 

"Now,  that 's  all  right,  ma'am,"  said  Peter, 
as  she  began  coughing  again.  "Nobody  's 
going  to  take  nobody  whilst  I  'm  in  this  boat, 
and  you  can  make  your  mind  up  to  that  right 
off.  Here's  Buddy  right  here,  eating  like 
a  little  man,  ain't  you,  Buddy?" 

"Poor  baby!"  said  the  woman.  "Come 
62 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

and  let  Ma  try  to  carry  you  again.  Your 
poor  little  leg's  all  tired  out,  ain't  it?" 

"It 's  rested/'  said  Buddy,  "it  ain't  tired." 

"Tired,  oh,  God,  I  'm  tired !"  she  wept. 
"You  '11  have  to  get  down,  Buddy.  Ma  can't 
carry  you  another  step.  God  knows  when  I 
get  to  Riverbank  I  '11  be  straight.  I  Ve  got 
enough  of  this.  Where's  Susie?" 

"Now,  I  wisht,  if  you  can,  you  'd  try  to  lie 
quiet,  ma'am,"  said  Peter,  "for  you  ain't  well. 
Try  lying  still,  and  I  '11  go  right  to  town  and 
get  a  doctor  to  come  out  and  see  you.  I 
did  n't  mean  you  no  harm  at  all." 

"I  know  you,  you  snake!"  she  cried. 
"You  're  from  the  Society.  You  took  my 
Susie,  and  you  want  Buddy.  I  '11  kill  you 
first.  Come  here,  Buddy !" 

The  boy  went  to  her  obediently,  and  she 
drew  him  on  to  the  bunk  and  ran  her  hand 
through  his  white  kinks  of  hair.  It  seemed 
to  quiet  her  to  feel  him  in  her  arm. 

"Now,  ma'am,"  said  Peter,  "you  see  no- 

63 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

body  's  going  to  take  Buddy  at  all,  and  you 
can  take  my  word  I  won't  let  anybody  take 
him  whilst  I  'm  around.  You  can  depend  on 
that,  I  'm  going  to  town,  now,  and  I  guess 
I  'd  better  leave  Buddy  right  here,  for  you  '11 
be  more  comfortable  knowing  where  he  is. 
Don't  you  worry  about  nothing  at  all  until 
I  get  back,  and  if  you  find  the  door  locked 
it 's  just  so  nobody  can't  .get  in  and  bother 
you." 

He  looked  about  the  cabin.  It  was  com- 
fortably warm,  and  he  poured  water  on  the 
fire.  He  wished  to  take  no  chances  with  the 
woman  in  her  present  state.  He  even  took 
his  shot-gun  and  the  heavy  poker  as  he  went 
out.  Buddy  watched  him  with  interest. 

"Are  you  stealing  that  gun?"  he  asked. 

"No,  son,"  said  Peter  gravely.  "No- 
body 's  stealing  anything.  You  want  to  get 
that  idea  out  of  your  head.  Nobody  in  this 
cabin — you,  nor  me,  nor  your  ma,  would  steal 
anything.  Your  ma  's  sick  and  don't  know 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

what  she 's  doing,  but  she  don't  mean  no  real 
harm.  I  guess  she  ain't  been  treated  right, 
and  she  feels  upset  about  it,  but  a  boy  don't 
want,  ever,  to  say  anything  bad  about  his 


ma/3 


He  went  out  and  closed  and  locked  the 
door.  Involuntarily  he  glanced  at  Widow 
Potter's  chimneys.  No  smoke  came  from 
any  of  them. 

"Now,  I  just  bet  that  woman  has  gone  and 
got  sick,  just  when  I  've  got  my  hands  plumb 
full !"  he  said  disgustedly.  "I  've  got  to  go 
up  and  see  what 's  the  matter  with  her,  or 
she  might  lie  there  and  die  and  nobody  know 
a  thing  about  it." 

The  cold  had  frozen  the  slush  into  hard- 
ness, and  Peter  cut  across  the  corn-field.  He 
tried  Mrs.  Potter's  doors  and  found  them  all 
locked — which  was  a  bad  sign,  unless  she  had 
gone  to  town  while  he  was  in  the  shanty- 
boat — but  he  knocked  on  the  kitchen  door 
noisily,  and  was  rewarded  after  a  reasonable 

65 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

wait,  by  hearing  the  widow  dragging  her  feet 
across  the  kitchen. 

"Is  that  you,  Peter  Lane?"  she  asked. 

"Yes'm,"  Peter  answered. 

"Well,  it's  time  you  come,  I  must  say," 
said  the  widow,  between  groans.  "You  the 
only  man  anywheres  near,  and  you  'd  leave 
me  die  here  as  soon  as  not.  You  got  to  feed 
the  cows  and  the  horse  and  give  the  chickens 
some  grain  and  then  hitch  up  and  fetch  a  doc- 
tor as  fast  as  he  can  be  fetched.  I  might 
have  laid  here  for  weeks,  you  're  that  unre- 
liable. I  '11  put  the  barn  key  on  the  kitchen 
table,  and  when  the  doctor  comes  I  '11  be  in 
my  bed,  if  the  Lord  lets  me  live  that  long. 
I  '11  be  in  it  anyway,  I  dare  say,  dead  or  alive, 
if  I  can  manage  to  get  to  it.  And  don't  you 
come  in  until  I  get  out  of  the  way,  for  I  ain't 
got  a  stitch  on  but  my  night-gown." 

"I  won't,"  said  Peter,  and  he  did  n't.  He 
gave  Mrs.  Potter  time  to  get  into  twenty 
beds,  if  she  had  been  so  minded,  before  he 

66 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

opened  the  kitchen  door  a  crack  and  peeped 
in.  He  hurried  through  the  chores  as  rap- 
idly as  he  could,  feeding  the  stock  and  the 
chickens  and  milking  the  cows.  He  had 
eaten  part  of  the  omelet  Buddy  had  com- 
menced, but  he  thought  it  only  right  he 
should  have  a  satisfying  drink  of  the  warm 
milk,  and  he  took  it.  He  made  a  fire  in  the 
kitchen  stove  and  saw  that  the  iron  tea-kettle 
was  full  of  water,  and  then  he  harnessed  the 
horse  and  drove  briskly  to  town  and  sought  a 
doctor. 

It  was  the  hour  when  physicians  were  mak- 
ing their  calls  and  the  first  two  Peter  sought 
were  out,  but  Dr.  Roth,  the  new  doctor  who 
had  come  from  Willets  to  build  a  practice  in 
the  larger  town,  happened  to  be  in  his  office 
over  Moore's  Drug  Store,  and  he  drew  on  his 
coat  and  gloves  while  Peter  explained  the 
object  of  his  visit. 

"I  ain't  running  Mrs.  Potter's  affairs/5 
said  Peter,  "for  there  ain't  no  call  for  her  to 

67 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

have  nobody  to  run  them,  but,  if  I  was,  I  'd 
get  a  sort  of  nurse-woman  to  go  up  and  take 
care  of  her.  She  's  all  alone,  and  I  don't 
know  how  sick  she  is." 

"Then  you  are  not  Mr.  Potter?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"I  ain't  nothing  at  all  like  that,"  said  Peter. 
"I  'm  a  shanty-boatman  and  my  boat  is  right 
near  the  widow's  place,  and  I  do  odd  chores 
for  her.  Old  Potter  died  and  went  where  he 
belongs  quite  some  time  ago." 

The  doctor  agreed  to  pick  up  Mrs.  Skinner 
on  his  way,  Mrs.  Skinner  being  one  of  those 
plump,  useful  creatures  that  are  willing  to 
do  nursing,  washing,  or  general  housework 
by  the  day. 

"And  another  thing,  doctor,"  said  Peter, 
as  the  doctor  closed  his  office  door,  "whilst 
you  are  out  there  I  want  you  to  drop  down 
to  the  cove  below  the  widow's  house,  to  a 
shanty-boat  you  '11  see  there,  and  take  a  look 
at  the  woman  I  've  got  in  it.  So  far  as  I 
68 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

can  make  out  she  's  a  mighty  sick  woman. 
I  '11  try  to  get  back  before  you  get  through 
with  the  widow,  but  you  'd  better  take  my 
key,  if  I  should  n't.  I  '11  pay  whatever  it 
costs  to  treat  her.  1 9m  quite  ready  to  do 
that/' 

"Why  not  drive  out  with  me?" 

"I  got  some  business  to  transact,"  said 
Peter.  "But  mebby  it  might  be  just  as  well 
to  wait  till  I  do  get  there.  She  's  sort  of  out 
of  her  mind,  and  she  might  think  you  had 
come  to  do  her  some  harm  if  I  was  n't  there." 

The  business  Peter  had  to  transact  took 
him  to  George  Rapp's  Livery,  Sale  and  Feed 
Stable,  and  by  good  luck  he  found  George  in 
his  stuffy,  over-heated  office,  redolent  of  to- 
bacco smoke,  harness  soap  and  general  stable 
odors.  Like  all  men  who  brave  cold  weather 
at  all  hours  George  liked  to  be  well  baked 
when  in-doors. 

"Well,  George,"  said  Peter,  "since  I  seen 
you  yesterday  circumstances  has  occurred  to 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

change  my  mind  about  making  any  trips  this 
year  in  my  boat.  For  a  man  of  my  constitu- 
tion I  Ve  made  up  my  mind  it  would  be  just 
the  worst  thing  to  go  south  at  all.  It  ain't 
the  right  air  for  my  lungs,  and  when  you  got 
to  talking  about  chinchillas  going  out  of  fash- 
ion, I  seen  it  was  n't  worth  the  risk.  What 
I  need  is  cold  climate,  George,  and  it 's  an  un- 
fortunate thing  this  here  Mississippi  River 
don't  run  any  way  but  south,  because  there  's 
one  fur  never  does  go  out  of  style,  and  that 's 
arctic  fox — " 

"All  right,  I  '11  give  you  forty  dollars  for 
the  boat/'  laughed  Rapp,  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket. 

"Now,  wait!"  said  Peter.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  think  I  'm  doing  this  just  because  I 
want  to  sell  the  boat,  George.  That  ain't 
so.  I  guess  maybe  I  could  raise  what  money 
I  need  to  outfit,  one  way  or  another,  but  I 
can't  afford  to  pay  a  caretaker  to  take  care 
of  that  boat  whilst  I  'm  away  up  in  Labrador, 

70 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

or  Alaska,  or  wherever  I  'm  going,  and  it 
ain't  safe  to  leave  a  shanty-boat  vacant. 
Tramps  would  run  away  with  her." 

"When  do  you  aim  to  start  north?"  asked 
Rapp,  grinning. 

"My  mind  ain't  quite  made  up  to  that," 
said  Peter.  "I  want  to  look  over  a  map  and 
see  where  Labrador  is  before  I  start  out.  I 
thought  maybe  you  'd  let  me  remain  in  the 
shanty-boat  awhile,  George." 

"Stay  on  her  as  long  as  you  like,"  said 
Rapp.  "You  can  live  right  in  her  all  winter. 
All  I  want  is  to  get  her  down  to  my  place 
right  away  before  the  river  closes,  so  she  '11 
be  there  when  the  ducks  fly  next  spring." 

"Now,  that 's  another  thing,"  said  Peter 
uneasily.  "With  all  the  preparations  I  have 
to  make  for  my  trip  I  '11  have  to  be  round 
town  more  or  less  this  winter,  and  as  your 
place  is  a  long  way  down  river,  I  thought 
maybe  you  might  let  the  boat  stay  where 
she  is  this  winter,  George?" 

71 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"You  can  sleep  in  my  barn  any  time  you 
want  to,  Peter/', said  Rapp.  "I  might  as 
well  let  that  boat  lie  where  she  is  forever  as 
leave  her  there  all  winter.  I  want  her  down 
there  when  the  ducks  fly  north.  I  '11  give 
you  five  dollars  extra  for  floating  her  down, 
and  a  dollar  or  so  a  week  for  taking  care  of 
her,  but  if  she  can't  go  down  she  ain't  any 
use  to  me." 

"The  way  the  ice  is  beginning  to  run  I  'd 
have  to  start  her  down  to-day  or  to-morrow," 
said  Peter  regretfully.  "It  upsets  my  plans, 
but  I  got  to  have  some  ready  cash.  If  the 
wind  shifts  your  slough  will  be  ice-blocked, 
and  there  ain't  no  other  safe  place  to  winter 
a  boat  down  there." 

"You  don't  have  to  sell  her  if  you  don't 
want  to,"  said  Rapp.  "You  can  put  off  your 
trip.  Seems  like  I  've  heard  you  put  off  trips 
before  now,  Peter." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  sell,  George,"  said 
Peter.  "Maybe  I  can  trap  muskrats  or 
72 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

something  down  there,  I  '11  make  out  some 
how." 

He  took  the  money  Rapp  handed  him  and 
once  more  Peter  was  homeless.  He  was  no 
better  than  a  tramp  now.  His  plans  were 
vague  as  to  the  sick  woman,  but  forty-five 
dollars  seemed  a  great  deal  of  money  to 
Peter.  He  might  hire  a  room  from  Mrs. 
Potter,  if  that  lady  would  permit,  and  have 
the  sick  woman  cared  for  there,  or  he  might 
have  her  brought  to  town  and  lodged  some- 
where, if  any  one  would  take  her  in.  There 
was  no  hospital  in  Riverbank.  But  he  was 
happy.  Somehow,  he  did  not  doubt  he  could 
care  for  the  woman,  for  he  had  money  in 
his  pocket.  To  turn  her  over  to  the  county 
poor-farm  did  not  enter  his  mind.  He  would 
not  have  given  a  dog  that  fate. 

He  drove  to  Main  Street  first  and  tied  his 
horse  before  the  grocery  that  received  his  in- 
frequent patronage.  Here  he  bought  a  bag  of 
flour  and  six  packages  of  roasted  coffee,  some 

73 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

bacon  and  beans,  condensed  milk  and  canned 
goods,  sugar  and  other  necessities,  and  then 
let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  grocer's  shelves. 
He  had  about  decided  to  buy  a  can  of  green 
gage  plums,  as  a  dainty  he  loved  and  never  in- 
dulged in,  and  therefore  suitable  to  buy  for 
the  sick  woman,  when  he  saw  the  small  white 
jars  of  beef  extract,  and  he  bought  one  for 
the  sick  woman. 

While  his  parcels  were  being  wrapped  he 
picked  up  the  copy  of  the  Riverbank  News 
that  lay  on  the  counter  and  glanced  over  it, 
for  a  newspaper  was  a  rare  treat  for  Peter. 
On  the  first  page  his  eye  caught  the  head- 
line "Pass  Her  Along."  It  was  at  the  head 
of  an  article  in  the  News  reporter's  best  hu- 
morous style,  and  told  how  Lize  Merdin,  a 
notorious  character,  had  been  run  out  of  Der- 
lingport,  the  next  town  up  the  river,  and  or- 
dered never  to  return  under  pain  of  tar  and 
feathers.  "The  gay  girl  hit  the  ties  in  the 
direction  of  Riverbank  at  a  Maud  S.  pace, 

74 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

yanking  her  young  male  offspring  after  her 
by  the  arm,"  wrote  the  reporter,  aand  when 
last  seen  seemed  intending  to  favor  River- 
bank  with  her  society,  but  up  to  last  reports 
nothing  has  been  seen  of  her  there.  It  is 
a  two  days'  jaunt  for  a  gentle  creature  like 
Lize,  but  when  she  hits  the  River  Street  depot 
she  will  find  Riverbank  a  regular  spring- 
board, and  the  bounce  she  will  get  here  will 
impress  on  her  receptive  mind  the  fact  that 
Riverbank  is  not  hankering  for  her  company. 
Pass  her  along!" 

Peter  folded  the  paper  and  laid  it  on  the 
counter.  So  that  was  who  his  visitor  was, 
and  how  she  came  to  be  tramping  the  rail- 
way track!  He  walked  to  where  great 
golden  oranges  glowed  in  a  box,  near  the 
door,  and  chose  half  a  dozen  and  laid  them 
beside  his  other  purchases.  These  too  were 
for  the  sick  woman.  Then  he  selected  a 
dozen  big,  red  apples  and  laid  them  beside 
the  oranges.  They  were  for  Buddy.  It  was 

75 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter's  method  of  showing  his  disapproval  of 
the  bad  taste  of  the  News'  article. 

When  Peter  reached  the  widow's  farm- 
house the  doctor's  horse  still  stood  in  the 
barn-yard,  and  Peter  put  up  his  own  horse, 
while  waiting  for  the  doctor  to  come  out. 

"How  is  the  widow?  Is  she  bad  off?"  he 
asked  when  the  doctor  appeared. 

"Mrs.  Potter  thinks  she  is  a  very  sick 
woman,  and  she  is  n't  a  well  one,"  said  the 
doctor.  "She  '11  stay  in  bed  a  week,  any- 
way. That 's  some  woman.  She  has  Mrs. 
Skinner  hopping  around  like  a  toad  in  a  skillet 
already,  and  she  sent  orders  by  me  that  you 
are  to  come  and  sleep  in  the  kitchen,  to  be 
handy  if  she  has  a  relapse  in  the  night.  You 
are  to  take  care  of  her  stock,  and  saw  the  rest 
of  her  cord  wood,  and  do  the  odd  chores,  and 
if  the  pump  freezes  thaw  it  out,  before  it  gets 
frozen  any  worse." 

"Now,  ain't  that  too  bad!"  said  Peter. 
"Just  when  I  Ve  got  to  get  started  down 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

river  this  afternoon.  Things  always  happen 
like  that,  don't  they?" 

He  led  the  way  across  the  frozen  corn-field 
to  his  shanty-boat,  and  opened  the  door. 
Buddy  had  managed  to  turn  the  table  upside 
down  and  was  "riding  a  boat"  in  it.  The 
doctor  gave  the  boy  and  the  cabin  one  glance 
and  had  Peter  classed  as  one  of  the  shiftless 
shanty-boatmen  before  he  had  pulled  off  his 
fur  gloves.  Then  he  turned  to  the  woman. 
She  was  lying  with  her  face  toward  the  wall. 
He  bent  over  her,  and  when  he  straightened 
his  back  and  turned  to  Peter  his  face  was  very 
serious. 

"Your  wife  is  dead,"  he  said. 

Peter's  pale  blue  eyes  stared  at  the  doctor 
vacantly. 

"Dead?"  he  stammered.  "My  wife? 
Why,  doctor,  she  ain't — " 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  not  waiting  to  hear 
the  conclusion  of  Peter's  sentence.  "She  has 
been  dead  an  hour,  at  least.  A  weak  heart, 

77 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

overtaxed,  I  should  say.  What  do  you  mean 
by  leaving  her  in  these  damp  clothes?  I 
should  have  been  called  long  ago." 

"Now,  ain't  that  too  bad !  Ain't  that  too 
bad!"  said  Peter  regretfully.  "It  ain't  no- 
body's fault  but  mine.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
for  you  last  night,  and  there  I  was,  a-sleepin' 
away  as  comfortable  as  could  be !" 

"She  should  have  been  under  treatment 
for  some  time,"  said  the  doctor  severely.  He 
was  a  young  doctor,  and  important,  and  not 
inclined  to  spare  the  feelings  of  a  mere 
shanty-boatman.  Here  he  could  be  severe, 
who  had  to  be  suave  and  politic  with  better 
people.  He  told  Peter  brutally  that  the 
woman  had  not  been  properly  cared  for ;  that 
with  her  constitution,  she  should  have  had 
delicacies  and  comforts  and  kindness.  "If 
you  want  my  candid  opinion,  you  as  much  as 
killed  her,"  said  Dr.  Roth. 

He  was  nettled  by  Peter's  apparent  heart- 
lessness,  for  while  Peter  showed  that  the 


THE  SCARLET  WOMAN 

death  had  shocked  him,  he  gave  way  to  no 
outburst  of  sorrow  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  a  bereaved  husband.  But  now  deep  re- 
gret in  Peter's  eyes  touched  him. 

"I  should  n't  have  said  that,"  he  said  more 
kindly.  "I  might  not  have  been  able  to  do 
anything.  Probably  not  much  after  all. 
But  if  you  don't  want  the  boy  to  go  the  same 
way,  treat  him  better.  You  have  him  left." 

Peter  turned  and  looked  at  Buddy  who,  all 
unconscious,  was  rowing  his  table  boat  with 
a  piece  of  driftwood  for  oar. 

"That 's  so,  aint  it?"  said  Peter.  "She  's 
left  the  boy  on  my  hands,  ain't  she?  I  guess 
I  got  to  take  care  of  him.  Yep,  I  guess  I 
have!" 

When  the  doctor  left  the  boat,  half  an  hour 
later,  he  shook  his  head  as  he  closed  the  door. 

"Shiftless  and  unfeeling!"  he  muttered  to 
himself.  "  'Left  the  boy  on  my  hands  P 
Poor  boy,  I  'm  sorry  for  you,  with  a  father 
like  that." 

79 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

For  he  did  not  see  Peter  drop  on  his  knees 
beside  the  curly  headed  child  as  soon  as  the 
door  was  closed,  and  he  did  not  see  how 
Peter  took  the  boy  in  his  arms.  He  could  not 
hear  what  Peter  said. 

"Buddy  boy,"  said  Peter,  "how  'd  it  be  if 
you  and  Uncle  Peter  just  sort  of  snuggled 
up  close  and — and  et  a  big,  red  apple?" 


80 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

'TVJOW,  don't  you  fret,  Buddy-boy," 
-1.^1  said  Peter  Lane  with  forced  cheer- 
fulness, "because  I  'm  going  to  let  you  do 
something  you  never  did  before,  and  that  I 
would  n't  let  many  boys  do.  You  are  going 
to  help  Uncle  Peter  steer  this  boat,  just  like 
you  was  a  big  man/' 

Buddy  stood  in  the  skiff  which  was  drawn 
up  on  the  bank.  Peter,  with  a  rock  and  his 
stove-poker,  was  undoing  the  frozen  knot 
that  held  his  shanty-boat  to  the  Rock  Island 
Railway  System,  and  by  means  of  that  to  the 
State  of  Iowa.  He  was  preparing  to  take 
the  shanty-boat  down  the  river  to  George 
Rapp's  place.  His  provisions  were  aboard, 
the  rag  of  a  sail  lay  ready  to  raise  should  the 

81 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

wind  serve — but  it  promised  not  to — and  the 
long  sweep  that  had  reposed  on  the  roof  of 
the  boat  was  on  its  pin  at  the  bow,  if  a  boat, 
both  ends  of  which  were  identical,  could  be 
said  to  have  a  bow. 

"I  like  to  steer  boats,"  said  Buddy  out  of 
his  boyish  optimism. 

"I  bet  you  do/'  said  Peter,  "and  a  mighty 
good  steerer  you  '11  make.  I  don't  know 
how  Uncle  Peter  could  get  down  river  if  he 
didn't  have  somebody  to  steer  for  him. 
Now,  you  let  me  push  that  skiff  into  the 
water,  and  we  '11  row  around  the  boat,  and 
before  you  know  it  you  '11  be  steering  like  a 
regular  little  sailor." 

He  threw  the  mooring  rope  on  to  the  stern 
deck  of  the  shanty-boat,  pushed  the  skiff  into 
the  water  and  poled  to  the  other  end  of  the 
boat  where  the  long  sweep  was  held  with  its 
blade  suspended  in  the  air,  the  handle  caught 
under  a  cleat  on  the  deck.  Peter  lifted 
Buddy  to  the  deck,  made  the  skiff's  painter 
82 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

fast,  and  climbed  to  the  deck  after  the 
boy. 

"Now,  Buddy,  we  '11  be  off  in  a  minute 
and  a  half/'  he  said,  "just  as  soon  as  I  fix 
you  the  way  they  fix  sailors  when  they  steer 
a  ship  in  a  big  storm." 

He  drew  a  ball  of  seine  twine  from  his 
pocket,  knotted  one  end  about  Buddy's  waist, 
cut  off  a  generous  length,  and  tied  the  other 
end  to  the  cleat. 

"Don't!"  said  Buddy  imperatively.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  tied,  Uncle  Peter." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do!"  said  Peter.  "Why,  a 
sailor-man  could  n't  think  of  steering  a  great 
boat  like  this  unless  he  was  tied  to  it." 

"No!"  shouted  Buddy,  and  Peter  stood, 
holding  his  end  of  the  cord,  studying  the 
boy. 

"Now,  Buddy-boy,"  he  said  appealingly. 
"Don't  holler  like  that.  Ain't  I  told  you  we 
must  keep  right  quiet,  because  your  ma  is 
asleep  in  there." 

83 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  tied!"  cried  the 
boy. 

"But  Uncle  Peter  's  going  to  be  tied,  too/' 
said  Peter.  "Yes,  siree,  Bob !  Just  as  soon 
as  I  get  this  boat  out  into  the  river,  I  'm  going 
to  be  tied  like  you  are,  and  no  mistake.  You 
did  n't  know  that,  I  guess,  did  you?" 

The  boy  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Are  you?"  he  asked. 

"If  I  say  I  am,  I  am,"  said  Peter.  "You 
can  always  be  right  sure  that  when  Uncle 
Peter  says  a  thing,  he  ain't  trying  to  fool  you, 
Buddy.  No,  sir !  You  can  just  believe  what 
Uncle  Peter  says,  with  all  your  might.  I 
might  lie  to  grown  folks  now  and  then,  but 
I  would  n't  lie  to  a  little  boy.  No,  sir !" 

"I  ain't  a  little  boy.  I  'm  a  big  sailor- 
man  !"  said  the  boy.  "And  you  said  I  could 
steer,  and  I  want  to  steer." 

"Right  away  you  can,"  said  Peter. 
"You  're  going  to  steer  with  one  of  them 
skiff  oars,  but  first  I  've  got  to  row  this  boat 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

out  into  the  river  a  ways  so  you  '11  have  plenty 
of  room.  So  don't  you  fret.  You  watch 
Uncle  Peter." 

He  made  the  skiff  fast  to  the  boat  with  a 
length  of  rope,  took  the  oars,  and  as  he 
rowed,  the  heavy  boat  moved  slowly  from  be- 
hind the  point  out  into  the  river  current. 
Peter  towed  her  well  out  into  the  river  be- 
fore he  let  the  skiff  drop  back.  He  meant  the 
shanty-boat  to  float  sweep  first — it  was  all 
the  same  to  her — and  he  fastened  the  painter 
of  the  skiff  to  the  shanty-boat's  stern,  and 
edged  his  way  along  the  narrow  strip  of  wood 
that  marked  the  division  between  the  hull  and 
the  superstructure,  holding  himself  by  clasp- 
ing the  edge  of  the  roof  with  his  cold  fingers, 
and  sliding  an  oar  along  the  roof  as  he  went. 
It  would  have  been  much  simpler  and  safer  to 
have  passed  through  the  cabin. 

To  satisfy  Buddy,  he  tied  a  length  of  seine 
cord  about  his  own  waist  and  fastened  the 
end  to  the  deck  ring,  and  then  he  lashed 

85 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Buddy's  oar  to  a  small  iron  ring.  The  boy 
could  take  a  few  steps  and  splash  the  water 
with  the  oar  without  falling  into  the  river. 
Then  Peter  took  the  heavy  sweep  handle  in 
his  hands  and  the  shanty-boat  was  under 
way. 

It  was  time.  The  rising  water  had  dis- 
lodged heavier  ice  than  had  yet  come  down, 
and  the  river  was  filling  with  it.  The  wind, 
such  as  there  was,  while  it  blew  almost  dead 
upstream,  was  an  aid  in  that  it  swept  the 
floating  ice  toward  the  Illinois  shore,  leaving 
Peter's  course  clear,  and  an  occasional  dip 
of  the  sweep  was  sufficient  to  keep  the  boat 
head-on  in  the  current.  The  wind  made  the 
river  choppy,  but  the  shanty-boat,  not  having 
had  time  to  water-log  since  Peter  put  her  in 
the  water,  floated  high. 

For  a  while  Buddy  steered  energetically, 
splashing  the  water  with  the  blade  of  his  oar, 
but  Peter  was  ready  for  the  first  sign  of 
weariness. 

86 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

"My !  but  you  are  a  fine  steerer !"  he  said 
approvingly.  "When  you  grow  just  a  bit 
bigger,  Uncle  Peter  is  going  to  teach  you 
how  to  row  a  boat,  and  a  song  to  sing  while 
you  row  it.  Hurry  up,  now,  and  help  Uncle 
Peter  steer." 

"Let 's  sing  a  song  to  steer  a  boat/'  said 
Buddy. 

"No,  I  guess  we  won't  sing  to-day/'  said 
Peter.  "Some  other  day  we  '11  sing." 

For  Peter  and  Buddy  were  not  taking  the 
voyage  alone.  When  Peter,  assisted  by 
Mrs.  Skinner,  had  completed  the  preparations 
he  felt  were  due  any  woman  who  is  making 
the  Great  Journey,  he  found  his  money  too 
little  to  afford  her  a  resting-place  in  the  town, 
but  Peter  Lane  could  not  let  one  who  had 
knocked  at  his  door,  seeking  shelter,  go  from 
there  to  the  potter's  field,  any  more  than  he 
could  let  her  boy  go  to  the  county  farm. 
While  the  smart  reporter  was  wondering 
whether  the  power  of  the  press,  in  his  article 

87 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Pass  Her  Along/'  had  warned  Lize  Merdin 
to  take  the  road  to  some  other  town,  and 
while  Dr.  Roth  was  telling  of  the  shanty- 
boatman  whose  wife  had  died  without  medi- 
cal attendance,  Peter,  by  roundabout  ques- 
tions regarding  George  Rapp's  place,  learned 
of  a  small  country  burying  ground  not  too  far 
from  the  spot  where  the  shanty-boat  was  to 
be  moored  for  the  winter.  There  he  was  tak- 
ing Lize  Merdin  who,  "decent"  at  last  and 
forever,  lay  within  the  cabin. 

Through  the  long  forenoon  Peter  leaned 
on  the  handle  of  his  sweep,  pressing  his 
breast  against  it  now  and  then  to  swing  the 
shanty-boat  into  the  full  current.  There  was 
no  other  large  boat  on  the  river.  Here  and 
there  a  fisherman  pulled  at  his  oars  in  a  heavy 
skiff,  or  moved  slowly  from  hook  to  hook  of 
his  trot-line,  lifting  from  time  to  time  a  flop- 
pily  protesting  fish,  but  gave  the  shanty- 
boat  no  more  than  a  glance. 

The  boat  floated  past  the  empty  log-boom 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

of  the  upper  mill — silent  for  the  winter — 
and  past  the  great  lumber  piles,  still  bearing 
their  covering  of  sleet.  Peter  could  hear  the 
gun-like  slap  of  board  on  board  coming  from 
where  some  man  was  loading  lumber  in  a 
freight  car,  and  occasionally  a  voice  came 
across  the  water  with  startling  distinctness : 

"I  told  him  he  could  chop  his  own  wood, 
I  wouldn't  do  it."  "What  did  he  say  to 
that?"  "He  said  he  could  get  plenty  of  men 
that  would  do  it."  He  knew  the  men  must 
be  sitting  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  finally 
his  sharp  eyes  made  them  out  below  the 
railway  embankment — two  black  specks 
crouched  over  a  small,  yellow  blaze.  He  rec- 
ognized one  voice,  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
town  loafers.  The  other  was  strange  to  him, 
probably  that  of  some  tramp. 

Below  that,  dwellings  fronted  the  river 
and  the  streets  of  the  town  opened  in  long 
vistas  as  the  boat  came  to  them,  closing  again 
immediately  as  it  passed.  The  hissing  of  a 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

switch-engine,  sidetracked  to  await  the  pass- 
ing of  a  train  soon  due,  and  the  clanking  of 
a  poker  on  the  grate  bars  as  the  fireman  dis- 
lodged the  clinkers,  came  to  Peter's  ears  dis- 
tinctly. Then  the  boat  slipped  past  George 
Rapp's  stable,  with  its  bold  red  brick  front, 
and  as  he  passed  the  door,  Peter  could  hear 
for  an  instant  the  scrape  of  a  horse's  hoof 
in  the  stall,  although  the  boat  was  a  good  half 
mile  out  in  the  river.  Beyond  the  stable  was 
the  low-lying  canning  factory,  and  the  row  of 
saloons,  and  the  hotel,  and  the  wholesale 
houses,  partly  hidden  by  the  railway  station 
on  the  river  side  of  Front  Street,  and  the 
packet  warehouse  on  the  river's  edge.  Then 
the  low  rumbling  of  the  dusty  oatmeal  mill, 
cut  by  the  excited  voices  of  small  children 
playing  at  the  water's  edge,  became  the  prom- 
inent voice  of  the  town. 

From  the  edge  of  the  river  the  town  rose 
on  two  hills,  showing  masses  of  gray,  leaf- 
less trees,  with  here  and  there  a  house  peep- 
go 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

ing  through.  From  Peter's  boat  it  looked 
like  the  dead  corpse  of  a  town,  but  he  knew 
every  street  of  it,  and  he  knew  Life,  with 
its  manifold  business  of  work  and  play,  was 
hurrying  feverishly  there,  and  he  knew,  too, 
that  not  one  of  all  those  so  busy  with  Life 
knew  he  was  floating  by,  or  if  knowing  it, 
would  have  cared. 

"That  there  is  a  town,  Buddy/'  said  Peter. 
"That 's  Riverbank." 

"Is  it  ?"  said  Buddy,  without  interest.  He 
gave  it  but  a  glance. 

"Yes,  sir  I"  said  Peter.  "That 's  the  town. 
And  it 's  sort  of  funny  to  think  of  that  whole 
townful  of  people  rushing  around,  and  go- 
ing and  coming,  and  doing  things  that  seem 
mighty  important  to  them  whilst  your — 
whilst  this  boat  goes  floating  down  this  river 
as  calm  and  peaceful  as  if  the  day  of  judg- 
ment had  come  and  gone  again.  It 's  funny! 
Probably  there  ain't  man  or  woman  in  that 
whole  town  but,  a  couple  of  days  ago,  was 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

better  and  whiter  than — than  a  certain 
party;  and  now  there  ain't  one  of  'em  but  is 
all  smudgy  and  soiled  if  compared  with  her. 
Yes,  sir,  it's  funny!" 

He  worked  his  sweep  vigorously  to  carry 
the  shanty-boat  to  the  east  of  the  large  island 
— the  Tow-head — that  lay  before  the  lower- 
town.  The  screech  of  boards  passing 
through  the  knives  of  a  planing-mill  drowned 
the  rumble  of  the  oatmeal  mill.  A  long  pas- 
senger train  hurried  along  the  river  bank 
like  a  hasty  worm,  and  stopped,  panting,  at 
the  water  tank,  and  went  on  again.  The 
boat,  as  it  passed  on  the  far  side  of  the  island, 
seemed  to  drop  suddenly  into  silence,  and  the 
chopping  of  the  waves  against  the  hull  of 
the  boat  made  itself  heard. 

"Yes,  sir,  towns  is  funny!"  said  Peter. 
"Now,  take  the  way  going  behind  this  island 
has  wiped  that  one  out.  So  far  as  you  and 
me  are  concerned,  Buddy,  that  town  might 
be  wiped  off  the  earth,  and  we  would  n't 

92 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

know.  We  wouldn't  hardly  care  at  all. 
The  folks  in  it  ain't  nothing  to  us  at  all, 
right  now.  And  yet,  if  I  go  into  that  town, 
I  'm  interested  in  every  one  of  the  folks 
I  meet,  and  it  makes  me  sort  of  sick  to  see 
any  of  them  cold  and  hungry.  Maybe 
that 's  what  towns  is  for.  Maybe  I  live 
alone  too  much.  I  get  so  all  I  think  about 
is  sleep  and  eat.  And  eating  ain't  a  bad 
habit.  How  'd  you  like  to  ?" 

Buddy  was  willing.  He  was  willing  to 
eat  any  time.  He  ate  two  apples  and  eight 
crackers,  and  watched  the  apple  cores  float 
beside  the  boat. 

"Now,  you  're  going  to  fish,"  said  Peter. 
"Right  here  looks  like  a  good  place  to  fish. 
Maybe  you  '11  catch  a  whale.  You  're  just 
as  apt  to  catch  a  whale  here  as  anything 
else." 

"Ain't  Mama  hungry?5'  asked  Buddy  so 
suddenly  that  Peter  was  startled. 

"Now,  hear  that!"  he  said.     "Ain't  you 

93 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

just  as  thoughtful !  Why,  no,  Buddy.  It 's 
real  nice  for  you  to  think  of  that,  but  your 
ma  ain't  hungry.  She  ain't  going  to  be 
hungry  or  cold  or  wet  any  more,  so  don't 
you  bother  your  little  head  about  it  one  bit. 
She  don't  want  anything  but  that  you  should 
grow  up  and  be  a  big,  fine  man." 

"Like  you,  Uncle  Peter?"  asked  Buddy. 

"My  land,  no!"  said  Peter  impulsively. 
"I  mean,  no,  indeed.  Don't  you  take  me  for 
no  model,  Buddy.  You  want  to  grow  up 
and  be — I  '11  explain  when  you  get  older.  I 
want  you  to  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man;  the 
kind  of  man  that  takes  some  interest  in  other 
folks.  You  don't  want  to  be  a  dried-up  old 
codger  like  me." 

"What's  a  codger?"  asked  Buddy. 

"A  codger  is  a  stingy,  old,  hard-shell 
cuss — "  Peter  began.  "I  guess  you  could 
eat  another  apple,"  he  finished,  and  Buddy 
did. 

The  island  they  were  passing  was  low  and 

94 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

fringed  with  willows,  now  bare  of  leaf,  and 
the  shanty-boat  kept  close  in  until  the  cur- 
rent veered  to  the  Illinois  shore,  with  its 
water-elms  and  maples,  and  tangles  of  wild 
grapevines.  Peter  knew  every  mark  of  this 
part  of  the  river  well.  The  current  swung 
from  shore  to  shore,  now  crossing  to  the 
Iowa  side  again,  where  the  levee  guarded 
the  fields,  and  now  swinging  back  to  the 
Illinois  bottom-land.  For  the  boy  the  scene 
held  little  interest;  for  Peter  it  was  a  new 
chapter  of  an  old  story  he  loved.  Here  a 
giant  sycamore  he  had  known  since  youth 
had  been  blackened  and  shortened  by  light- 
ning; there  an  elm,  falling,  had  created  a 
new  sand-bar  on  which  willows  were  already 
finding  a  foothold.  In  time  it  might  be 
quite  an  island,  or  perhaps  the  next  spring 
"rise"  might  sweep  it  away  entirely.  A 
farm-house  high  on  the  Illinois  bluff  had  a 
new  windmill.  A  sweet-potato  barn  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  was  now  a  blackened 

95 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

pile  of  timbers.  Rotting  sand-bags  told  the 
spot  where  the  river,  on  its  last  "rampage" 
had  threatened  to  cut  the  levee. 

Buddy  fished  patiently  until  even  a  more 
interested  fisherman  would  have  given  it  up 
as  a  bad  job,  and  Peter  fed  him  a  slice  of 
bread  and  butter.  For  half  an  hour  he 
watched  Peter  whittle  a  nubbin  off  the  end 
of  the  sweep  and  fashion  it  into  a  top,  but 
at  the  first  attempt  to  spin  it  the  top  bounded 
into  the  water,  and  floated  away,  and  this 
suggested  boats.  For  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon Peter  doled  out  pieces  of  the  pile  of 
driftwood  on  the  deck,  and  they  went  over 
the  side  as  boats,  Peter  naming  each  after 
one  of  the  river  steamers,  until  Buddy  him- 
self said,  "This  is  the  War  Eagle,  Uncle 
Peter/'  or  "This  is  the  Long  Annie.  She  'II 
splash !"  Peter  did  not  grudge  his  firewood ; 
there  was  an  abundance  of  driftwood  to  be 
had  in  the  slough  for  which  they  were  mak- 
ing. The  last  piece  he  fitted  with  a  painter 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

of  twine,  and  Buddy  let  it  drag  in  the  water, 
enjoying  its  "pull,"  until  the  afternoon  grew 
late  and  the  sun  set  like  a  huge  red  ball  that 
almost  reached  from  bank  to  bank,  and  made 
the  river  a  path  of  gold  and  copper. 

As  they  floated  down  this  glowing  way, 
Peter  fed  the  boy  again.  Little  as  he  knew 
about  boys,  he  knew  they  must  be  fed. 

"There,  now !"  he  said  when  the  tired  boy 
could  eat  no  more,  and  the  tired  eyes  blinked, 
"I  guess  you  '11  sleep  like  a  sailor  to-night, 
and  no  mistake,  Buddy-boy,  and  I  'm  going 
to  give  you  a  treat  such  as  boys  don't  often 
have.  You  see  that  great,  big,  white  moon 
up  there  ?  I  'm  going  to  let  you  go  to  bed 
outdoors  here,  so  you  can  look  right  up  at 
that  moon  and  blink  your  eyes  at  it,  and  see 
if  it  blinks  back  at  you.  That 's  what  I  'm 
going  to  do ;  and  whenever  you  want  to,  you 
can  open  your  eyes  and  you  '11  see  that  big 
old  moon,  and  those  stars,  and  Uncle  Peter ." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep,"  said  Buddy. 

97 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Nobody  said  you  had  to  go  to  sleep/'  said 
Peter.  "You  stay  awake,  if  you  want  to, 
and  watch  that  funny  old  moon.  You  'd 
think  we  'd  float  right  past  it,  but  she  floats 
along  up  there,  like  a  sort  of  shanty-boat  up 
in  the  sky,  and  the  stars  follow  along  like 
the  play  boats  you  put  in  the  water.  You 
wait  until  you  see  the  bed  Uncle  Peter  is 
going  to  make  for  you !" 

Buddy  fixed  his  eyes  very  seriously  on  the 
moon,  while  Peter  unlocked  the  cabin  door 
and  brought  out  an  armful  of  nets  and 
blankets  and  a  pillow.  Close  against  the 
cabin  Peter  built  a  bed  of  nets  and  blankets. 

"There,  now!"  he  said.  "That's  some 
bed !  I  hope  that  moon  did  n't  blink  at  you. 
Did  she?" 

"No,  she  did  n't,"  said  Buddy.  "But  she 
almost  did." 

"You  crawl  in  here  where  you  '11  be  nice 
and  warm,  then,"  said  Peter.  "Uncle  Peter 
has  to  have  somebody  to  watch  that  moon 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

and  tell  him  if  she  blinks,  and  you  can  lie 
here  and  look  up,  like  the  sailors  do.  If  she 
blinks,  you  tell  me,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Buddy  seriously,  and  Peter 
tucked  him  in  the  blankets.  "Uncle  Peter," 
he  said,  after  a  minute,  "she  blinked." 

"Did  she,  now?"  said  Peter,  but  Buddy 
said  no  more.  He  was  asleep. 

But  the  moon  did  not  blink  much.  Big 
and  clear  and  cold  she  filled  the  river  valley 
with  white  light  through  which  sparkles  of 
frost  glittered,  and  through  the  evening  and 
late  into  the  night  Peter  Lane  stood  at  his 
sweep,  looking  out  over  the  water  and  think- 
ing his  own  strange  thoughts.  Now  and 
then  he  stooped  and  arranged  the  blanket 
over  Buddy's  shoulders,  and  now  and  then 
he  knelt  and  dipped  water  from  the  river 
with  his  cupped  hand  to  pour  tipon  the 
sweep-pin  lest  it  creak  and  awaken  the  boy. 
When  he  swung  the  sweep  he  swung  it 
slowly  and  carefully,  so  that  only  the  softest 

99 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

gurgle  of  water  could  be  heard  above  the 
plashing  of  the  small  waves  against  the 
hull. 

After  midnight  the  night  became  intensely 
cold  and  Peter's  fingers  stiffened  on  the 
sweep  handle,  and  he  warmed  them  by  hug- 
ging them  in  his  arm-pits.  It  was  about 
two  in  the  morning  when  the  shanty-boat 
slipped  into  the  mouth  of  the  slough  that  cut 
George  Rapp's  place,  and  floated  more 
slowly  down  the  narrow  winding  water  un- 
til the  soft  grating  of  sand  on  the  bottom  of 
the  hull  told  Peter  she  was  going  aground 
on  a  bar.  Very  quietly,  then,  Peter  poled 
the  boat  close  to  the  low,  muddy  bank — 
frozen  now — and  made  her  fast.  His  voy- 
age was  over. 

He  gathered  driftwood  and  made  a  fire, 
well  back  from  the  boat  so  the  light  might 
not  disturb  the  boy's  slumber,  and  sat  beside 
it,  warming  his  hands  and  feet,  until  the  sun 
lighted  the  east.  It  was  a  full  hour  after 
100 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

sunrise  before  Buddy  awakened,  and  then  he 
looked  expectantly  at  the  sky. 

"The  moon  got  lost,  Uncle  Peter/'  he  said 
with  deep  concern. 

"Well,  we  have  n't  time  to  bother  about 
any  moon  this  morning/'  said  Peter  briskly. 
"This  is  the  day  you  are  going  to  have  a 
real  good  time,  because  a  farmer  man  lives 
not  so  far  away  from  here,  and  he  has  more 
pigs  than  you  ever  heard  of,  and  horses,  and 
cows,  and  chickens,  and  turkeys,  and  guinea- 
hens,  and  I  don't  know  what  all,  and  I  dare 
say  he  's  wondering  why  you  have  n't  come 
to  see  them  by  this  time.  Yes,  sir,  he  's  won- 
dering why  Buddy  has  n't  come  yet.  And 
so  are  the  pigs,  and  the  cows,  and  the  horses, 
and  the  chickens,  and  the  guinea-hens." 

"And  the  turkeys/'  said  Buddy,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  siree,  Bob!"  said  Peter.  "So  we  '11 
hurry  up  and  wash  our  faces — " 

Buddy  scrambled  to  his  feet,  all  eagerness, 
and  then,  with  the  sudden  changefulness  of 
101 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

a  small  boy,  he  turned  from  Peter,  toward 
the  cabin  door. 

"I  want  my  mama  to  wash  my  face!"  he 
said. 

Peter  Lane  put  his  thin  brown  hand  on 
Buddy's  shoulder. 

"Son,"  he  said,  so  seriously  that  Buddy 
looked  up,  "do  you  recall  to  mind  the  other 
night  when  you  and  your  ma  come  a  knock- 
ing at  my  door,  and  how  cold  and  wet  and 
tired  in  the  leg,  and  hungry  you  was  ?  Well, 
Buddy,  your  ma  was  awful  sorry  you  was  so 
tired  out  and  all.  I  guess  I  couldn't  half 
tell  you  how  sorry  she  was,  son,  not  in  a 
week.  You  took  notice  how  your  ma  cried 
whilst  you  was  on  that  trip,  did  n't  you?" 

"Yes,  Mama  cried,"  said  Buddy. 

"Yes,  she  cried,"  said  Peter.  "And  the 
reason  she  cried  was  because  she  had  to  take 
you  on  that  trip  that  she  did  n't  know  what 
was  to  be  the  end  of.  That 's  what  she  cried 
for,  because  she  had  to  let  you  get  all  tired 
102 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

and  hungry.  And  you  wouldn't  want  to 
make  your  ma  cry  any  more,  would  you?" 

"No,"  said  Buddy  simply. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Peter,  clearing  his 
throat,  "your  ma  she  has  had  to  go  on  an- 
other trip,  unexpected,  and  she  says  to  me, 
in  a  way,  so  to  speak,  'Uncle  Peter/  she 
said,  'here  's  Buddy,  and  he  just  can't  go 
with  me  on  this  trip,  and  I  want  you  to  take 
him  and — and — show  him  the  pigs  and — ' ' 

"And  cows,"  Buddy  prompted.  "And 
horses.  And  turkeys." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Peter  Lane.  "So  to 
speak,  that 's  what  she  meant,  I  guess.  The 
horses  and  turkeys  and  the  things  in  the 
world.  So  she  went  away,  and  she  would  n't 
like  to  have  you  fret  too  much  just  because 
she  could  n't  take  you  along." 

"All  right,"  said  Buddy,  quite  satisfied. 
"Let's  go  see  the  pigs,  and  the  cows,  and 
the  turkeys." 

For  Peter  it  was  a  long  day,  from  the  time 
103 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

he  carried  Buddy  on  his  shoulder  to  the 
farm-house  two  miles  back  on  the  bluff  to  the 
time  he  stopped  for  him  at  the  farm-house 
again,  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  bore  him 
back  to  the  boat,  with  a  chunk  of  ginger- 
bread in  his  hand,  and  the  farmer's  kind 
wife  standing  in  the  door,  wiping  her  eyes 
on  her  blue  apron. 

When  Peter  had  tucked  the  boy  in  the 
bunk,  and  had  said  "Good  night,"  he  took 
out  his  jack-knife  to  shape  a  wooden  spoon. 
The  boy,  raising  his  head,  watched  him,  and 
Peter,  looking  up,  saw  the  blue  eyes  and 
thought  he  saw  a  reproach  in  them. 

"That's  so!"  he  said.  "That's  so!  I 
forgot  it  teetotally  last  night." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk 
and  leaned  over  the  boy,  taking  the  small 
hands  in  his. 

"I  don't  know  if  your  ma  had  you  say  your 
prayers  to  her  or  not,  Buddy,"  he  said,  "and 
I  don't  rightly  remember  how  that  'Our 
104 


BUDDY  STEERS  THE  BOAT 

Father'  goes,  so  we  '11  get  along  the  best  we 
can  'til  I  go  up  to  the  farm  again  and  I  find 
out  for  sure.  You  just  say  this  after  Uncle 
Peter — 'O  God,  make  us  all  well  and  happy 
to-morrow:  Buddy  and  Uncle  Peter,  and 
Aunt  Jane/  " 

"And  Aunt  Jane,"  repeated  Buddy. 

"And — and  Mrs.  Potter/'  said  Peter. 

"And  Mrs.  Potter/'  said  Buddy,  "and  the 
pigs,  and  the  horses,  and  the  cows,  and  the 
chickens,  and  the  turkeys." 

"Well— yes!"  said  Peter.  "I  guess  it 
won't  do  any  harm  to  put  them  in,  although 
it  ain't  customary.  They  might  as  well  be 
well  and  happy  as  not. — Amen !" 

"Uncle  Peter,"  said  the  boy  suddenly, 
"will  Mama  come  back?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Peter  Lane,  in  his  unpre- 
paredness,  and  then  he  opened  his  mouth 
again  to  tell  the  boy  the  truth,  but  he  heard 
the  sigh  of  satisfaction  as  Buddy  dropped 
his  head  on  the  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes. 
105 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"I  got  to  take  that  lie  back  to-morrow/' 
said  Peter  gravely,  but  he  never  did  take  it 
back,  never!  It  stands  against  him  to  this 
day,  but  it  is  quite  hidden  in  the  heaped  up 
blossoms  of  his  gentle  kindness. 


106 


VI 
"BOOGE" 

NO,  siree,  Buddy!"  said  Peter,  shaking 
his  head,  "my  jack-knife  is  one  thing 
you  can't  have  to  play  with.  There  's  two 
things  a  man  ought  n't  to  trust  to  anybody ; 
one 's  his  jack-knife  and  one 's  his  soul. 
He  ought  to  keep  both  of  them  nice  and 
sharp  and  clean.  If  I  been  letting  my  soul 
get  dull  and  rusty  and  all  nicked  up,  it 's  no 
sign  I  'm  going  to  let  my  jack-knife  get  that 
way.  What  I  got  to  do  is  to  polish  up  my 
soul,  and  I  guess  there  ain't  no  better  place 
to  do  it  than  down  here  where  there  ain't 
nobody  to  bother  me  whilst  I  do  it.  You 
hain't  no  idee  what  a  soul  is,  but  you  will 
have  some  day,  maybe.  I  ain't  right  sure  I 
know  that,  myself." 

107 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

The  shanty-boat  was  moored  in  Rapp's 
slough,  and  had  been  there  three  days.  The 
cold  weather,  which  continued  unabated,  had 
sealed  the  boat  in  by  spreading  a  sheet  of  ice 
over  the  surface  of  the  slough,  but  Peter 
did  not  like  the  way  the  river  was  behaving. 
Between  the  new-formed  ice  and  the  shore 
a  narrow  strip  of  water  appeared  faster  than 
the  cold  could  freeze  it  and  the  ice  that  cov- 
ered the  slough  cracked  now  and  then  in 
long,  irregular  lines,  all  telling  that  the  river 
was  rising,  and  rising  rapidly.  This  meant 
that  the  cold  snap  was  merely  local  and  that 
up  the  river  unseasonably  warm  weather  had 
brought  rains  or  a  great  thaw.  There  was 
no  great  danger  of  a  long  period  of  high 
water  so  late  in  the  season,  for  cold  waves 
were  sure  to  freeze  the  North  soon,  but  the 
present  high  water  was  not  only  apt  to  be  in- 
convenient but  actually  dangerous  for  the 
shanty-boat.  A  rise  of  another  foot  would 
cover  the  lowland,  and  if  the  weather 
108 


"BOOGE" 

turned  warm  Buddy  and  Peter  would  be  cut 
off  from  the  hill  farms  by  two  miles  of  water- 
covered  "bottom,"  to  wade  across  which  in 
Peter's  thin  shoes  would  be  most  unpleasant. 
The  danger  was  that  the  wind  which  now 
blew  steadily  toward  the  Iowa  side  and  down 
stream,  might  force  the  huge  weight  of  float- 
ing ice  into  the  head  of  the  slough,  pushing 
and  pressing  it  against  the  newly  formed 
slough  ice  and  crumbling  it — cracked  and 
loosened  at  the  edges  as  it  was — and  thus 
pile  the  whole  mass  irresistibly  against  the 
little  shanty-boat.  In  such  an  event  the 
boat  would  either  be  overwhelmed  by  one  of 
those  great  ice  hills  that  pile  up  when  the 
river  ice  meets  an  obstruction  or,  borne  be- 
fore the  tons  of  pressure,  be  carried  out  of 
the  slough  with  the  moving  ice  and  forced 
down  the  river  for  many  miles,  perhaps,  be- 
fore Peter  could  work  the  boat  into  clear 
water  and  find  shelter  behind  some  point. 
The  water  reached  the  height  of  the  bank  of 
109 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

the  slough  the  third  day,  and  Peter  made 
every  possible  preparation  to  save  the  boat 
should  the  ice  begin  to  move.  There  was 
not  much  he  could  do.  He  unshipped  his 
small  mast  and  drove  a  spike  in  its  butt,  to 
use  as  a  pike  pole,  stowed  his  skiff  in  a  safe 
place  between  two  large  trees  on  the  shore, 
and  saw  to  the  hitch  that  held  the  boat,  that 
he  might  cast  off  promptly  if  the  strain  be- 
came too  great. 

Peter  did  not  blame  himself  for  the  posi- 
tion in  which  the  untimely  rise  had  placed 
him.  The  slough  should  have  been  a  safe 
place.  Once  let  the  ice  firmly  seal  the  slough 
— any  slough— and  all  the  weight  of  all  the 
floating  ice  of  the  whole  river  could  not  dis- 
turb the  boat.  When  the  ice  moved  out  of 
the  river  in  the  spring  it  would  pile  up  in  a  ^ 
mountain  at  the  head  of  the  island  formed 
by  the  slough,  choking  the  entrance,  and  not 
until  the  slough  ice  softened  and  rotted  and 
honeycombed  and  at  last  dissolved  in  the  sun, 
110 


"BOOGE" 

could  anything  move  the  shanty-boat.  A 
big  rise  in  November  is  rare  indeed. 

"But  I  want  your  jack-knife,  Uncle  Peter/* 
said  the  boy  insistently.  "I  want  to  whittle/* 

"And  I  would  n't  give  two  cents  for  a  boy 
that  didn't  want  to  whittle,"  said  Peter. 
"A  jack-knife  is  one  of  the  things  I  've  got 
to  get  you  when  I  go  up  town,  and  I  '11  put  it 
right  down  now/* 

From  his  clock  shelf — still  lacking  its 
alarm-clock — he  took  a  slip  of  paper  and  a 
pencil  stub.  It  was  his  list  of  goods  to  be 
bought,  and  it  was  growing  daily. 

Coffee 

Rubber  boots  for  B 

Lard 

Sweter  for  B.  red  one; 

Bibel 

Sope 

Hymn  Book 

Stokings  for  B 

A.  B.  C.  blocks  for  B 

60  thread.     80  too 

Under  this  he  added  "Jack-knife  for  B/' 
111 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

and  replaced  the  list  and  pencil.  He  shook 
his  head  as  he  did  so.  He  had  forty  cents 
in  his  pocket,  and  the  small  pile  of  wooden 
spoons  that  represented  his  trading  capital 
had  not  increased.  Getting  settled  for  the 
winter  had  taken  most  of  his  time,  and  while 
his  jack-knife  was  busy  each  evening  its 
work  was  explained  by  the  toys  with  which 
Buddy  had  littered  the  floor.  These  were 
crudely  whittled  and  grotesque  animals — a 
horse,  a  cow,  two  pigs  and  a  cat  much  larger 
than  the  cow,  all  of  clean  white  maplewood 
— the  beginnings  of  a  complete  farm-yard. 
Of  them  all  Buddy  preferred  the  "funny 
cat,"  and  a  funny  cat  it  was. 

Peter  had  his  own  ideas  on  the  question  of 
when  a  small  boy  should  go  to  bed!,  but 
Buddy  had  other  ideas,  and  Peter  was  not 
sorry  to  have  the  boy  playing  about  the  cabin 
long  after  normal  bed-time.  When,  on  the 
night  of  the  funeral,  it  became  a  matter  of 
plain  decency  for  Buddy  to  retire,  and  he 
112 


"BOOGE" 

would  n't,  Peter  had  compromised  by  agree- 
ing to  whittle  a  cat  if  Buddy  would  go  to 
bed  like  a  little  soldier  as  soon  as  the  cat 
was  completed.  The  result  was  a  very  hasty 
cat.  Peter  made  it  with  twenty  quick  mo- 
tions of  his  jack-knife — which  was  putting 
up  a  job  on  Buddy — but  Buddy  was  satisfied. 
The  cat  had  no  ears.  It  might  have  been  a 
rabbit  or  a  bear,  if  Peter  had  chosen  to  call  it 
so.  It  was  a  most  impressionistic  cat.  But 
Buddy  loved  it. 

"Ho!  ho!"  he  laughed,  throwing  his  legs 
in  the  air,  as  was  his  way  when  he  was  much 
amused.  "That 's  a  funny  cat,  Uncle  Peter. 
Make  another  funny  cat." 

"You  get  to  bed,  young  Buddy!"  said 
Peter.  "I  said  I  'd  make  you  a  cat,  and  you 
say  that 's  a  cat,  and  you  said  you  'd  go  to 
bed,  so  to  bed  you  go." 

And  to  bed  Buddy  went,  with  the  cat  in 
one  hand.  Next  to  Peter  himself  Buddy 
loved  the  cat  more  than  anything  in  the 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

world.  He  loved  to  look  at  the  cat.  It  was 
the  sort  of  cat  that  left  something  to  the  im- 
agination. That  may  be  why  he  liked  it. 
Children  are  happiest  with  the  simplest  toys. 
In  Peter's  list  of  prospective  purchases  the 
"Bibel"  had  been  put  down  because  Peter, 
watching  Buddy's  curly  head  as  it  lay  beside 
the  cat  on  the  pillow  of  the  bunk,  had  sud- 
denly perceived  that  a  child  is  a  tremendous 
responsibility.  Buddy's  hair  did  it.  He  no- 
ticed that  Buddy's  hair,  which  had  been  al- 
most white,  had,  in  the  few  days  Peter  had 
had  him  in  charge,  turned  to  a  dirty  gray. 
He  had  not  minded  Buddy's  dirty  face  and 
hands — they  were  normal  to  a  boy — but  the 
soiled  tow  hair  shamed  Peter.  Even  a 
mother  like  Buddy's  had  kept  that  hair  as  it 
should  be,  and  Peter  was  shocked  to  think 
he  was  already  letting  the  boy  deteriorate. 
If  this  continued  Buddy  would  soon  be  no 
better  than  himself — a  shiftless  (as  per  Mrs. 
Potter),  careless,  no-account  scrub  of  a  boy, 
114 


"BOOGE" 

and  it  made  Peter  wince.  He  thought  too 
much  of  the  freckled  face,  and  the  little  tow- 
head  to  have  that  happen. 

It  made  him  down-hearted  for  a  minute, 
but  Peter  was  never  despondent  long.  If  the 
cold  chilled  his  bones  it  suggested  a  trip  to 
New  Orleans  or  Cuba,  and  he  instantly  for- 
got the  cold  in  building  one  detail  of  the  trip 
on  another,  until  he  had  circumnavigated  the 
globe  and  decided  he  would  go  to  neither  one 
nor  the  other,  but  to  Patagonia  or  Peru. 

If  that  was  the  way  Buddy's  hair  looked 
after  a  few  days  under  the  old  Peter,  then 
Peter  must  turn  over  so  many  new  leaves  he 
would  be  in  the  second  volume.  He  would 
be  a  tramp  no  more.  He  would  have  money 
and  a  home  and  be  a  respected  citizen,  with 
a  black  silk  watch  fob,  and  go  to  church — 
and  that  suggested  the  "Bibel."  With 
"sope"  and  the  Scripture  on  his  list  Peter  felt 
less  guilty. 

The  "hymn  book"  was  a  sequential 
thought.  Bibles  and  hymn  books  go  hand 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

in  hand.  Peter  meant  to  start  Buddy  right, 
and  he  was  going  to  begin  with  himself.  He 
meant,  now,  to  be  a  good  man,  and  a  pros- 
perous one — perhaps  a  millionaire.  His 
idea  was  a  little  vague,  including  a  shadowy 
Prince  Albert  coat  and  a  silk  hat,  but  he 
thought  a  Bible  and  a  hymn  book,  at  least, 
ought  to  be  in  the  stock  of  a  man  that  was 
going  to  be  what  Peter  meant  to  be.  The  A. 
B.  C.  blocks  on  the  list  were  to  be  the  corner- 
stone of  Buddy's  education,  and  on  them 
Peter  visioned  a  gilded  structure  of  college 
and  other  vague  things  of  culture.  Peter's 
plans  were  always  dreamlike,  and  all  the 
more  beautiful  for  that  reason.  He  was 
forever  about  to  trap  some  elusive  chinchilla 
on  some  unattainable  Amazon. 

"Make  a  funny  cat,  Uncle  Peter/'  said 
Buddy  when  he  was  convinced  he  could  not 
coax  the  jack-knife  from  Peter. 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Peter.  "You  Ve  got  one 
funny  cat.  I  guess  one  funny  cat  like  that 
116 


"BOOGE" 

is  enough  in  one  family.  Uncle  Peter  has  to 
keep  his  eye  out  to  watch  if  the  ice  is  going 
to  move  this  morning.  He  can't  make  cats/5 

"Make  a  funny  dog/'  said  Buddy  promptly. 

"Well,  Buddy,  if  I  make  you  a  funny  dog," 
said  Peter,  "will  you  be  a  good  boy  and  play 
with  it  and  let  Uncle  Peter  get  some  stove 
wood  aboard  the  boat?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  Buddy.  He  had 
the  smile  of  a  cherub  and  the  splendid  men- 
dacity of  youth.  He  would  promise  any- 
thing. Only  the  most  unreasonable  expect  a 
boy  to  keep  such  promises,  but  it  does  the 
heart  good  to  hear  them. 

Peter  took  a  thin  slice  of  maplewood  from 
his  pile,  and  seated  himself  on  his  bunk.  He 
held  the  wood  at  arm's  length  until  he  saw  a 
dog  in  it,  and  Buddy  leaned  against  his 
knee. 

"Now,  this  is  going  to  be  a  real  funny 
dog,"  said  Peter,  as  his  keen  blade  sliced 
through  the  wood  as  easily  as  a  yacht's  prow 
117 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

cuts  the  water.  "S'pose  we  put  his  head  up 
like  that,  hey,  like  he  was  laughing  at  the 
moon?"  Two  deft  turns  of  the  blade. 
"And  we  '11  have  this  funny  dog  a-sitting  on 
his  hind  legs,  hey?"  Four  swift  turns  of  the 
knife. 

"That's  a  funny  dog!"  laughed  Buddy. 
"Give  me  the  funny  dog." 

"Now,  don't  you  be  so  impatient,"  said 
Peter.  "This  is  going  to  be  a  real  funny 
dog,  if  you  wait  a  minute.  There,  now,  he  's 
scratching  that  ear  with  this  paw,  and  he  's 
ready  to  shake  hands  with  this  one,  and" — 
two  or  three  quick  turns  of  the  knife — "there 
he  is,  cocking  his  eye  up  at  you,  like  he  was 
tickled  to  death  to  see  you  had  your  face 
washed  this  morning  without  howling  no 
more  than  you  did." 

"Ho,  ho!"  laughed  Buddy;  "that's  a 
funny  dog!  Now  make  a  funny  rabbit, 
Uncle  Peter." 

"No,  siree,  Buddy!"  said  Peter  sternly. 
118 


"BOOGE" 

"You  promised  to  be  good  if  I  made  a  dog, 
so  you  just  sit  down  and  be  it.  When  a  body 
makes  a  promise,  he  'd  always  ought  to  keep 
it,  if  it  ain't  too  inconvenient.  So  you  stay 
right  here  and  don't  touch  the  stove  or  any- 
thing, whilst  I  get  in  some  wood.  That's 
my  duty,  and  when  a  man  has  a  duty  to  do  he 
ought  to  do  it,  unless  something  he  'd  rather 
do  turns  up  meanwhile/' 

Peter  took  his  shot-gun.  There  was  al- 
ways a  chance  of  a  shot  at  a  rabbit.  He 
crossed  the  plank  to  the  shore,  but  there  was 
not  much  burnable  driftwood  along  the 
slough.  What  there  was  had  been  frozen  in 
the  ice,  and  Peter  pushed  his  way  up  to 
where  the  slough  made  a  sharp  turn.  In 
such  places  abundant  driftwood  was  thrown 
against  the  willows  at  high  water,  and  Peter 
set  his  gun  against  a  log  and  filled  his  arms. 
He  was  stooping  for  a  last  stick  when  a  cot- 
ton-tail darted  from  under  the  tangled  pile 
and  zig-zagged  into  the  willow  thicket. 
119 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter  dropped  his  wood  and  grasped  his  gun 
and  ran  after  the  rabbit,  but  his  foot  turned 
on  a  slimy  log  and  he  went  down.  He  had 
a  bad  fall. 

For  a  man  just  beginning  a  career  of  su- 
perhuman goodness  Peter  swore  quite  freely 
as  he  sat  on  the  log  and  hugged  his  ankle, 
grinning  with  pain.  It  relieved  his  mind, 
and  the  rubbing  he  gave  his  ankle  relieved 
the  pain,  and  he  felt  better  all  through  when 
he  put  his  foot  to  the  ground  and  tried  it. 
He  limped  a  little,  but  he  grinned,  too,  for 
he  knew  Buddy  would  be  amused  to  see 
Uncle  Peter  limping  "like  Buddy."  Buddy 
could  see  something  funny  in  anything. 

Peter  limped  back  to  his  driftwood,  but 
as  he  pushed  through  the  leafless  willows  he 
dropped  his  gun  and  hobbled  hastily  toward 
the  shanty-boat.  Forced  by  the  weight  of 
river  ice  pressing  in  at  the  head  of  the  slough, 
the  slough  ice  was  "going  out/'  and  it  was 
going  out  rapidly.  Already,  as  far  as  Peter 
120 


"BOOGE" 

could  see  down  the  slough,  the  surface  was 
covered  with  hurrying  river  ice,  borne  along 
by  wind  and  current. 

In  his  concern  for  the  shanty-boat  and 
Buddy,  Peter  forgot  his  ankle.  He  knew 
well  the  power  of  the  ice,  and  he  fought  his 
way  along  the  shore  through  the  willow 
thickets,  fearing  at  each  glimpse  to  see  the 
shanty-boat  crushed  against  some  great 
water-elm  and  heaped  high  with  ice,  and 
fearing  still  more  to  see  nothing  of  it  what- 
ever. Once  let  the  shanty-boat  find  the 
mouth  of  the  slough  and  pass  out  into  the 
broad  Mississippi  and,  he  well  knew,  he 
might  have  a  long  fight  to  overtake  it.  The 
boat  might  travel  for  days  jammed  in  the 
floating  ice,  before  he  could  reach  it,  or  it 
might  be  crushed  against  some  point  or  in 
some  cove.  What  would  then  be  Buddy's 
fate  ?  What,  indeed,  might  not  be  the  boy's 
fate  already,  if  he  had  been  frightened  by 
the  grinding  of  the  ice  against  the  boat,  by 

121 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

the  snapping  of  the  shore  cable  or  by  the 
motion  of  the  boat,  and  had  attempted  to 
reach  the  shore  ?  Peter  beat  the  willow  sap- 
lings aside  with  his  arms  as  he  tried  to  make 
haste,  jumping  into  them  and  thrusting 
them  aside  like  a  swimmer. 

In  places  the  water  had  overflowed  the 
feet  of  the  willows,  and  through  this  Peter 
splashed  unheeding.  Once,  in  trying  to 
keep  outside  the  willow  fringe,  he  would 
have  slipped  into  the  slough  had  he  not  saved 
himself  by  clinging  to  the  bushes,  and  he  was 
wet  to  the  waist.  Here  and  there  the  bank 
lay  a  foot  or  two  higher,  and  there  were  no 
willows,  but  a  tangle  of  dead  grapevines  im- 
peded him.  In  other  places  the  shore  dipped 
and  the  water  stood  as  deep  as  Peter's 
knees,  and  he  crashed  through  the  thin  ice 
into  icy  water.  He  did  not  dare  venture 
back  from  the  shore  lest  he  pass  the  shanty- 
boat,  stranded  against  some  tree. 

Cold  as  the  air  was  the  sweat  ran  from 
122 


"BOOGE" 

Peter's  face,  and  he  panted  for  breath.  To 
pass  leisurely  along  the  bank  of  such  a 
slough  is  strenuous  work,  but  to  fight  along  it 
as  Peter  was  fighting,  is  real  man's  work, 
and  Peter — thin,  delicate  as  he  looked — was 
all  iron  and  leather.  For  a  mile  and  a  half 
he  worked  his  way,  until  he  reached  a  great 
sycamore,  known  to  all  the  duck  hunters  as 
the  "Big  Tree."  Below  the  Big  Tree  the 
slough  widened  into  a  broad  expanse  of 
water  known  as  Big  Tree  Lake.  Peter 
stopped  short.  In  the  middle  of  the  lake, 
knee-deep  in  water  and  holding  fast  to  a 
worn  imitation-leather  valise  from  which 
the  water  was  dripping,  stood  a  man.  The 
shanty-boat,  thrown  out  of  the  main  current, 
had  been  pushed  into  shallow  water,  where 
it  had  grounded  unharmed,  and  it  was  for 
the  shanty-boat  the  man  with  the  valise  was 
making,  swearing  heartily  each  time  he  took 
a  new  step  in  the  icy  water.  Peter  yelled 
and  the  man  turned,  and  looked  back.  At 
123 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

the  first  glimpse  of  the  face  Peter  picked  up 
a  stout  slab  of  driftwood. 

The  man  wore  the  ragged  remnant  of  a 
felt  hat  on  a  mass  of  iron-gray  hair  that  hung 
over  his  beady  eyes,  and  all  his  face  but  his 
eyes  and  a  round  red  nubbin  of  a  nose  was 
hidden  by  a  mat  of  brown  beard.  When  he 
saw  Peter  he  scowled  and  splashed  reck- 
lessly toward  the  boat,  swearing  as  he  went. 

The  western  side  of  the  lake  was  over- 
grown with  wild  rice,  a  favorite  feeding  spot 
for  the  migrating  ducks.  Indeed,  the  entire 
lake  was  apt  to  disappear  during  very  low 
water,  leaving  only  sun-baked  mud  with  the 
slough  running  along  the  eastern  margin. 
Through  the  shallow  ice-topped  water 
Peter  splashed  after  the  tramp,  breaking  the 
ice  as  he  went.  Until  he  was  well  out  in  the 
lake  the  ice  had  not  been  broken,  and  Peter 
could  not  understand  this.  It  was  as  if  the 
tramp  had  jumped  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
shore.  But  Peter  did  not  give  it  much 
124 


"BOOGE" 

thought.     He  had  something  more  impor- 
tant to  think  of. 

The  tramp  had  reached  the  shanty-boat 
and  had  clambered  aboard,  and  with  the  pike 
pole  Peter  had  left  lying  on  the  roof,  was  try- 
ing frantically  to  pole  the  boat  off  the  bar 
into  deeper  water.  A  boat  adrift  is  any 
one's  boat,  if  he  can  keep  it,  and  once  the  boat 
swung  clear  of  the  bar  into  deeper  water  the 
tramp  could  laugh  at  Peter.  He  rammed 
the  pike-pole  into  the  sand-bar  and  threw  his 
weight  upon  it,  straining  and  jumping  up 
and  down  while  Peter  splashed  toward  him. 

But  the  boat  would  not  budge.  The  pike- 
pole  found  no  grip  in  the  soft  sand  of  the 
bar,  and  Peter  came  nearer,  holding  up  one 
arm  to  protect  his  head.  He  expected  the 
tramp  to  strike  him  down  with  the  heavy 
pike-pole,  and  he  was  ready  to  make  a  fight 
for  it,  but  as  Peter's  hand  touched  the  deck 
the  tramp  put  down  a  hand  to  help  him 
aboard. 

125 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"All  right,  pardner,"  he  said  in  a  voice  so 
gruff  it  seemed  to  come  from  great  depths, 
"I  '11  give  you  half  the  vessel.  I  've  been 
dyin'  for  company  since  I  come  aboard.  It 's 
lonely  on  this  yacht." 

Peter  grinned  a  grin  he  had  when  he  was 
angry,  that  made  his  face  wrinkle  like  a 
wolfs. 

"This  is  my  boat/'  he  said  briefly,  and 
threw  open  the  door.  Buddy  sat  on  the  floor 
as  Peter  had  left  him,  playing  with  the 
"funny"  dog.  As  Peter  entered  he  looked 
up. 

"My  funny  dog  ain't  got  no  tail,  Uncle 
Peter,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  he  has,  Buddy,"  said  Peter,  with  a 
great  sigh  of  relief.  "He  's  got  a  tail,  but 
you  can't  see  it  because  he  ?s  sitting  on 
it" 

But  Buddy  was  looking  past  Peter  at  the 
tramp.  The  man,  his  thumbs  in  the  torn 
armholes  of  his  coat,  his  head  on  one  side, 
126 


"BOOGE" 

one  leg  raised  in  the  air,  was  making  faces 
at  Buddy.  As  Peter  turned,  the  tramp  put 
the  toe  of  his  boot  through  the  handle  of  his 
valise  and  raised  it,  tossing  it  in  the  air  with 
his  foot. 

Buddy  laughed  with  glee. 

"That 's  a  funny  man,  Uncle  Peter,"  he 
said.  "Who 'shim?" 

The  tramp  stepped  aside  and  put  his  wet 
valise  on  the  floor.  Then  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  laid  it  across  his  breast  and  bowed 
low  to  Buddy. 

"Yer  royal  highness,"  he  said  gravely. 
"I  am  knowed  from  near  to  far  as  The 
No-Less-Talented-Stranger-Who-Came-Out 
Of-the-East-and-Got-His-Permanent-Set- 
back-In-the-Booze.  Can  you  say  that?" 

Buddy  laughed. 

"Booge,"    he    said.     "That's    a    funny 


name." 


Peter  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  door  and 
the  tramp's  dripping  valise  in  the  other,  but 
127 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

it  was  evident  Booge  did  not  mean  to  accept 
Peter's  attitude  as  an  invitation  to  depart. 
He  went  inside  and  seated  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  bunk  and  pulled  off  first  one  wet 
boot,  and  then  the  other.  He  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  Peter  whatever  but  from  time  to 
time  he  screwed  up  his  hairy  face  and  winked 
at  the  boy. 

"My  name  's  Buddy/'  said  Buddy. 

"Buddy?"  queried  Booge.  "That's  a 
bully  name  for  a  little  feller.  First  the  Bud, 
an'  then  the  Flower,  an'  then  the  Apple 
green  an'  sour." 

Peter  had  never  seen  a  tramp  just  like 
Booge.  He  had  seen  tramps  as  dirty,  and 
as  ragged,  and  as  hairy,  but  he  had  never 
seen  one  that  little  boys  did  not  fear,  and  it 
was  plain  that  Buddy  was  captivated  by 
Booge's  good-nature.  But  a  tramp  was  a 
tramp,  no  matter  how  captivating,  and  a 
tramp  was  no  companion  for  a  boy  who  was 
to  grow  up  to  be  a  bank  president,  or  good- 
128 


"BOOGE" 

ness  knows  what,  of  respectability.  He  hard- 
ened his  heart. 

Booge  continued  to  Buddy :  "You  did  n't 
know  I  was  a  teacher,  did  you  ?  Oh,  yes,  in- 
deed !  I  'm  an  educated  feller,  and  I  figured 
to  teach  you,  but  it  seems  some  folks  want 
you  to  grow  up  just  as  ignorant  as  possible. 
Oh,  yes !" 

Peter  hesitated.  At  any  rate  there  was 
no  need  of  making  the  fellow  walk  through 
the  ice-covered  lake  again. 

"What  can  you  teach  him?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  there  's  soprano,"  rumbled  Booge. 
"I  can  teach  him  soprano.  That 's  a  good 
thing  for  a  young  feller  to  know.  Soprano 
or  alto,  just  as  you  say — or  bass.  I  can 
teach  bass  if  the  board  is  good.  How  is  the 
board  on  board?" 

Peter  ignored  the  question.  He  was  try- 
ing to  guess  what  sort  of  strange  creature 
this  was. 

"Well,  if  it 's  as  good  as  you  say,"  said 
129 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Booge,  "I  '11  teach  him  all  three.  That 's 
liberal.  I  '11  give  you  a  sample  of  my 
singin'." 

"You  don't  need  to,"  said  Peter.  "When 
I  want  any  singing,  I  '11  do  my  own." 

"Well,  since  you  urge  it  that  way,"  said 
Booge,  "I  can't  refuse,"  and  tapping  his  bare 
foot  on  the  floor  he  sang.  He  found,  some- 
where in  his  head,  a  high,  squeaky  falsetto. 
It  seemed  to  dwell  in  his  nose.  He  sang: — 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby ; 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  and  give  it  toast  and  tea; 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  and  bring  it  back  to  me. 

He  let  the  last  word  drone  out  long  and 
thin,  and  as  it  droned  he  made  faces  at 
Buddy,  screwing  up  his  eyes,  wriggling  his 
nose,  and  waggling  his  chin. 

"Sing  it  again,  Booge!"  cried  Buddy  en- 
thusiastically. "Sing  it  again." 

The  tramp  arose  and  bowed  gravely,  first 
to  Buddy  and  then  to  the  frowning  Peter. 
130 


Tapping  his  bare  foot  on  the  floor  he  sang 


"BOOGE" 

"That 's  enough  of  that/'  said  Peter. 

"Sing  it  again,  Booge!"  commanded 
Buddy,  and  the  tramp  standing  with  his 
hand  inside  his  coat,  sang,  in  his  deepest 
bass : — 

Don't  swear  before  the  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby. 
Don't  swear  before  the  baby,  or  cheat  or  steal  or  lie, 
Don't  swear  before  the  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 
Don't  swear  before  the  baby,  but  give  it  apple  pie. 

"Now,  laugh!"  shouted  Buddy. 

"Ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  said  Booge,  ex- 
actly as  it  is  printed. 

"I  want  your  face  to  laugh!"  ordered 
Buddy. 

Booge  screwed  up  his  thin  face,  and  Buddy 
looked  and  was  satisfied.  Booge  was  satis- 
fied, too.  He  knew  Buddy  was  boss  of  the 
boat,  now,  and  he  knew  he  stood  well  with 
Buddy. 


VIII 
RIVALS 

"rpHUNDERING  cats!"  cried  Peter  with 

A     exasperation  when  the  tramp  had  "ha, 

ha'd"  and  grinned  through  two  more  verses 

of  the  idiotic  song;  "I  Ve  got  to  go  outside 

and  tend  to  this  boat !" 

"You  play  with  your  toys  a  minute,  now, 
Buddy/'  said  Booge,  as  soon  as  Peter  was 
outside.  "My  voice  is  such  a  delicate  voice 
I  got  to  rest  it  between  songs  or  it 's  liable 
to  get  sick  and  die  away  for  good.  You 
wait  'til  I  rest  it  and  I  '11  sing  about  that 
funny  dog  you  Ve  got  there,  if  you  remem- 
ber to  ask  me." 

He  took  his  few  belongings  from  the  va- 
lise and  hung  them  before  the  fire  and  then, 
crawling  into  the  bunk,  settled  himself  com- 
132 


RIVALS 

fortably,  and  went  to  sleep.  When  Peter 
came  in  a  minute  later,  with  feet  and  legs 
chilled,  Booge  was  snoring. 

"Get  up,  here !"  said  Peter,  shaking  him. 

"You  better  not  wake  up  Booge,  Uncle 
Peter/'  said  Buddy,  "he's  got  to  get  his 
voice  rested  up/' 

"You  get  up  and  get  your  boots  on  quick, 
and  come  out  here  and  help  me,"  Peter  com- 
manded the  tramp.  "We  got  to  get  this 
boat  afloat  quick  or  we'll  be  here  all  win- 
ter." 

"All  right,  Captain  Kidd,"  said  Booge 
cheerfully.  "And  you  remember  to  ask  me 
to  sing  you  that  song  about  the  funny  dog," 
he  told  Buddy. 

The  slough  was  now  free  from  floating 
river  ice,  but  Peter  noticed  that  the  wind  was 
still  from  the  east.  This  should  have  kept 
the  ice  running  through  the  slough.  He 
knew  the  ice  must  have  jammed  at  the  head 
of  the  slough,  and  that  it  might  act  as  a 

133 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

dam,  lowering  the  water  in  the  slough 
enough  to  make  it  impossible  to  move  the 
boat.  He  was  working  at  the  pike-pole,  but 
with  poor  success,  and  when  Booge  came  out 
their  combined  efforts  seemed  to  accomplish 
no  more.  But  Peter  knew  the  boat  must  be 
moved,  and  long  after  Booge  wanted  to  give 
it  up  as  a  bad  job,  Peter  made  him  labor  at 
the  pole.  By  standing  on  the  landward 
edge  of  the  deck  and  joggling  the  boat  as 
they  pushed  on  the  pole  they  succeeded  in 
inching  the  shanty-boat  toward  deeper  water, 
and  at  length  she  floated  free  and  swung 
down  the  current.  Where  the  lake  nar- 
rowed and  ended  Peter  ran  the  boat  against 
the  shore,  letting  her  rest  against  a  fallen 
tree.  It  was  a  precarious  position,  and  one 
in  which  it  would  not  be  safe  to  leave  the 
boat  if  the  river  ice  ran  again,  but  just  above 
this  where  the  lake  widened,  Peter  saw  a 
safe  harbor.  Fifty  feet  out  from  the  south- 
ern shore  of  the  lake  a  bar  had  formed,  and 
134 


RIVALS 

between  the  bar  and  the  shore  there  was 
deep  water  enough  to  float  the  boat.  To 
break  the  ice  of  this  cove,  warp  the  boat 
around  the  point  and  into  this  snug  harbor 
was  Peter's  intention.  His  only  cable  had 
snapped  close  to  the  boat  when  she  broke 
away,  and  he  made  Booge  hold  the  bow  of 
the  boat  close  against  the  bank  while  he 
hastily  twisted  a  makeshift  rope  of  trot-lines 
— hooks  and  all. 

With  Booge  on  the  shore  dragging  at  the 
rope  end,  and  Peter  breaking  the  ice  with  his 
pike-pole  from  the  deck,  and  pushing  with 
the  pole,  the  shanty-boat  moved  slowly  out 
of  the  current  of  the  slough  and  into  the 
quiet  water  where,  as  the  river  fell,  it  would 
be  stranded  with  its  hull  in  the  mud,  as  safe 
from  danger  as  if  on  top  of  one  of  the  hills 
two  miles  back  from  the  slough. 

It  was  hard  work — the  hardest  Booge  had 
tackled  for  years — and  it  consumed  the  bal- 
ance of  the  day.  When  the  two  men  went 
135 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

inside  Peter  did  not  complain  when  Booge 
threw  himself  on  the  bunk. 

If  Booge  imagined  he  had  won  an  easy  and 
permanent  victory,  leading  to  a  life  of  list- 
less ease,  he  misestimated  Buddy  and  Peter. 
Buddy  alone  could  have  kept  him  busy,  but 
Peter  let  Booge  know  immediately  that  if  he 
was  to  stay  even  a  day  he  must  earn  his  food 
and  lodging. 

The  tramp  was  an  odd  combination  of 
good  nature  and  laziness ;  of  good  intentions 
and  poor  fulfilments.  He  could  twang  a 
banjo,  when  he  had  one  to  twang,  and  his 
present  low  estate  was  due  to  the  untimely 
end  of  the  career  of  a  "medicine  show/'  one 
of  those  numerous  half-vaudeville,  half- 
peddling  aggregations  that  at  that  time  filled 
the  country,  charging  a  dime  for  admission 
to  the  "show"  and  a  dollar  a  bottle  for  the 
"remedy."  Out  of  a  hidden  past  Booge  had 
dropped  into  the  position  of  general  "roust- 
about" for  the  show,  caring  for  the  tent, 
136 


RIVALS 

doing  a  banjo  "turn"  when  the  "artist" 
went  on  his  regular  spree,  and  driving  the 
wagon  when  the  show  moved  from  town  to 
town.  When  the  final  catastrophe  came, 
Booge  sold  his  banjo  and  started  on  the  trail 
of  another  medicine-show.  It  fled  as  he  ad- 
vanced, and  his  garments  decayed,  were  re- 
placed with  cast-off  clothes,  until  he  awoke 
one  morning  with  a  sharp  realization  that  he 
was  no  longer  a  specialist  seeking  a  position, 
but  a  common,  every-day  tramp.  It  did  not 
annoy  him  at  all.  Being  a  tramp  had  ad- 
vantages. He  accepted  it  as  his  ultimate 
destiny. 

Caught  near  Riverbank  by  the  cold 
weather,  he  recalled  Lone  Tree  Lake,  where 
the  duck  hunters  usually  had  a  shack  or  a 
shanty-boat,  vacant  at  this  season,  and  he 
left  the  main  road  only  to  find  nothing  but 
the  scant  shelter  of  the  duck  blind.  Peter's 
boat,  when  it  appeared,  had  seemed  a  gift 
from  the  gods. 

137 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

The  shore  against  which  the  boat  now  lay 
was  a  thicket  of  willows  so  close  of  growth 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  fight 
through  them,  and  while  most  were  no  larger 
than  whips  some  were  as  large  as  a  man's 
wrist.  Against  the  low  bank  the  boat  lay 
broadside  and  so  close  that  the  willow 
branches  reached  over  her  roof,  and  as  soon 
as  Booge  had  brought  his  valise  inside  Peter 
reached  far  under  the  bunk  and  brought 
forth  an  ax. 

"Now,  Booge  ain't  going  to  have  time  to 
sing  songs  to  you  daytimes,  Buddy,  because 
everybody  that  lives  in  this  boat  has  work  to 
do/'  said  Peter,  "and  as  I  Ve  got  to  make 
some  spoons,  Booge  is  going  to  take  this  ax 
and  clear  away  a  path  through  the  willows. 
And  you  want  to  cut  them  off  close  down  to 
the  roots,"  he  warned  Booge,  "or  you'll 
have  to  do  it  over  again.  You  cut  a  path 
from  the  front  door  through  that  willow 
clump,  so  we  can  pass  in  and  out  and  get 

138 


RIVALS 

fire- wood,  and  when  you  've  got  the  path  you 
can  fetch  the  fire-wood.  I  'm  going  to  stay 
in  to-day  and  make  spoons." 

Booge  took  the  ax  and  looked  at  it  quiz- 
zically. 

"Well,  if  this  ain't  my  old  friend  wood- 
splitter  I  Ve  been  dodging  for  years  and 
years,"  he  said  good  naturedly.  "How-do, 
wood-splitter?  How's  your  cousin  buck 
saw?  Is  all  the  little  saw-bucks  well?" 

"You  'd  better  get  at  them  willows,"  said 
Peter. 

"I  just  wanted  to  enquire  about  them  old 
friends  of  mine,"  said  Booge. 

"You  '11  have  time  enough  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Wood-ax  before  you  get  done  with  him," 
said  Peter  dryly,  and  Booge  laughed  and 
went  out. 

That  evening,  when  Buddy  was  in  bed 
Peter  put  down  his  jack-knife  long  enough 
to  scribble  down  the  new  variations  of  the 
"Tell  the  Little  Baby"  song. 

139 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Writin'  a  book?"  Booge  asked. 

"Writing  home  to  my  folks  to  tell  them 
how  much  I  'm  enjoying  your  visit/'  Peter 
said,  "and  how  sorry  I  am  you  've  got  to  be 
moving  along  in  a  day  or  so/' 

But  Booge  did  not  move  along.  After 
Peter  had  ostentatiously  bathed  once  or  twice 
Booge  became  painfully  clean.  He  would 
come  in  from  the  jobs  Peter  set  him  and  wash 
his  face  and  hands  violently. 

"You  're  getting  as  clean  as  them  fellows 
that  get  five  dollars'  worth  of  baths  at  the 
Y.  M.  C  A.,  ain't  you?"  Peter  said  scorn- 
fully. 

"A  feller  can  get  lots  of  things  at  the  Y. 
M.  C.  A.  for  five  dollars  that  he  can't  get 
without  it/'  said  Booge  good  naturedly. 
"You  don't  want  to  knock  me  all  the  time, 
Peter.  A  horse  crops  grass  one  way,  and 
a  cow  crops  it  another  way,  and  the  Lord  is 
the  maker  of  them  all,  as  the  feller  said.  So 
long  as  a  man  has  a  clean  conscience  and  a 
140 


RIVALS 

clear  eye  he  can  walk  right  up  to  any  bull 
alive — if  the  bull  wants  to  let  him." 

"I  'm  glad  you  got  a  clean  conscience," 
said  Peter.  "Maybe  that's  why  you  don't 
worry." 

"If  you  feed  a  pig  regular  it  don't  ask  to 
be  petted,"  said  Booge,  "and  that 's  the  way 
with  me,  but  you  ought  to  give  me  some 
credit  for  the  way  I  pitched  in  and  labored 
in  this  here  driftwood  vineyard  when  you 
said  to.  I  bet  the  prodigal  son  hated  to  get 
down  to  work  after  his  pa's  party,  and  yet 
he  got  to  be  quite  a  respected  feller  in  his 
neighborhood.  You  oughtn't  to  think  a 
man  can't  work  because  he  don't.  There  's 
lots  of  fellers  never  seen  the  sea  that  has  eat 
salt  codfish." 

"I  guess  you  read  that  in  a  book,"  said 
Peter. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Booge.  "I  never  read 
but  one  book  in  my  life.  I  read  the  Bible, 
unexpurgated  edition,  when  I  was  a  kid,  and 
141 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

it  sort  of  cured  me  of  book  readin'.  There 
ain't  hardly  a  comfortable  word  in  it  for  an 
easy-goin'  man.  If  the  Bible  had  been  pub- 
lished to-day  it  would  have  got  some  mighty 
severe  criticism/5 

"Booge,"  said  Peter  suddenly,  "how  'd 
you  ever  happen  to  become  a  tramp  ?" 

"How  'd  you  ever  happen  to  become  a 
shanty-boatman?"  asked  Booge,  grinning, 
but  Peter  was  serious. 

"I  guess  you  "re  right  about  that,"  he  said. 
"I  had  n't  ought  to  object  to  what  you  are, 
when  I  'm  what  I  am.  I  just  let  myself 
slide,  was  how.  I  had  bad  lungs  was  what 
was  the  matter  with  me,  when  I  was  a  kid, 
so  my  pa  bought  me  a  farm  and  put  a  man 
on  it  to  run  it  for  me,  and  I  just  fooled 
around  and  tried  to  get  husky  and  stout  and 
by  the  time  I  was  old  enough  to  run  the  farm 
Father  busted,  and  then  a — certain  circum- 
stances took  the  farm  from  me,  and  I  took 
to  the  river.  It  seemed  like  me  and  the  river 
142 


RIVALS 

was  old  friends  from  ever  so  far  back.  So 
I  stuck  to  it  and  it  stuck  to  me,  and — that 's 
the  story." 

"Just  run  down  hill,"  commented  Booge 
cheerfully.  "It 's  funny,  ain't  it,  that 
water  's  about  the  only  thing  that  don't  get 
blamed  for  runnin'  down  hill  ?  You  and  the 
river  sort  of  run  down  together.  What 
started  me  was  something  just  about  as  com- 
mon as  lungs — it  was  wives.  Yes  sir,  just 
plain  wives !" 

"Don't  mean  to  say  you  had  two  of  'em?" 
asked  Peter. 

"Almost,"  said  Booge.  "I  had  one-half 
of  that  many.  I  'm  a  naturally  happy  man, 
and  I  've  had  all  sorts  of  ups  and  downs,  and 
as  near  as  I  can  make  out,  a  man  can  be 
happy  in  most  any  circumstances  except 
where  he  don't  give  his  wife  the  clothes  she 
wants.  My  notion  of  hell  is  a  place  where 
a  man  has  fifty  wives  and  no  money  to  buy 
clothes  for  'em.  My  wife  got  to  goin' 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

through  my  pockets  every  night  for  money 
to  buy  clothes,  so  I  skipped  out." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  a  woman  would 
rob  a  man's  pockets  whilst  he  was  asleep?" 
asked  Peter.  "Was  that  what  she  done? 
Took  money  from  them?" 

"No,  the  trouble  was  she  didn't  find  no 
money  to  take,"  said  Booge.  "Light  on 
money  and  strong  on  breath  was  what  was 
my  trouble." 

He  made  an  expressive  drinking  motion 
with  his  hand. 

"Booze,"  he  said.     "Booze  done  it." 

"You'd  ought  to  quit  it,"  Peter  said. 
"You  don't  seem  like  a  common  tramp.  I 
would  n't  let  you  stay  here  if  you  was.  Look 
at  the  harm  booze  done  you.  Look  at  what 
it  done  when  you  went  to  sleep  in  that  duck- 
blind." 

"That 's  so,"  agreed  Booge.  "It  got  me 
a  good  shanty-boat  to  sleep  in  and  three 
square  meals  a  day  and  a  place  to  practise 
144 


RIVALS 

my  voice  in.  But  I  suppose  you  mean  it  got 
me  where  I  have  to  listen  to  temp'rance  lec- 
tures from  you.  That  is  sort  of  hard  on 


me." 


Peter,  although  he  would  not  have  ad- 
mitted it,  was  growing  fond  of  the  careless, 
happy-go-lucky  tramp.  Booge  had  a  fund 
l  of  rough  philosophy  and,  more  than  all  else, 
he  was  good  to  Buddy,  and  had  not  Peter 
resolved  to  be  a  different  man  himself  on 
Buddy's  account,  he  would  have  liked  noth- 
ing better  than  to  have  Booge  make  his  win- 
ter home  in  the  shanty-boat,  but  he  felt  that 
Booge  must  go.  The  trouble  was  to  drive 
him  away.  Booge  would  not  drive,  and 
Peter  thought  of  a  hundred  quite  impossible 
schemes  for  getting  rid  of  him  before  he  hit 
on  the  one  he  finally  decided  to  put  into  ef- 
fect. 

He  had  noticed  that  the  farmer  on  the 
hill  back  of  the  lake,  where  Buddy  had  spent 
the  day  of  his  mother's  funeral,  had  a  huge 

H5 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

pile  of  cord  wood  in  his  yard,  and  he 
tramped  across  the  lowland  to  the  farmer's 
house  and  dickered  for  the  sawing  of  the 
wood.  It  was  a  large  contract,  and  Peter 
as  a  rule  did  not  care  to  saw  wood  except 
in  dire  straits,  but  he  had  decided  that 
if  he  was  to  be  a  man  of  worth  he  must  be  a 
man  of  work  to  begin  with,  and  the  wood 
pile  was  opportunity.  It  was  while  walking 
home  after  making  his  bargain  with  his 
farmer  friend  that  he  had  his  happy  idea — 
Booge  must  saw  wood!  His  food  supply 
would  be  cut  off  otherwise ! 

He  explained  it  to  Booge  that  evening. 
Here  they  were  in  the  shanty-boat,  Peter 
explained,  the  two  of  them  and  Buddy,  all 
eating  from  the  common  store  of  food,  and 
that  store  dwindling  daily.  Buddy  could 
not  work,  but  Peter  could,  and  Booge  must. 
Then  he  explained  about  the  pile  of  wood, 
a  good  winter's  work  for  the  two  of  them. 
Booge  listened  in  silence.  He  was  silent  for 
146 


RIVALS 

several  minutes  after  Peter  ceased  talking, 
and  then  he  grinned. 

"The  man  that  says  he  wouldn't  rather 
find  a  silver  dollar  in  the  road  than  earn 
five  dollars  a-workin',  is  like  that  man  that 
got  killed  with  a  thunderbolt  for  careless 
conversation/'  he  said  cheerfully,  "so  I  won't 
say  it.  Wood-sawin'  and  me  has  been  ene- 
mies ever  since  I  became  a  tourist.  I  guess 
I  '11  have  to  go—" 

"I  bet  you  would !"  said  Peter. 

"Yes,"  said  Booge,  "I  '11  have  to  go— up 
to  that  farmer's  and  saw  wood." 

His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  saw  Peter's  face 
fall.  And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  The 
two  men,  taking  turns  carrying  Buddy  or 
leading  him  by  the  hand,  walked  across  the 
snow-covered  bottom  to  the  farm  the  next 
morning,  and  while  Booge  did  not  over-exert 
himself,  he  at  least  sawed  wood.  He  sawed 
enough  to  prevent  any  unduly  harsh  criticism 
from  Peter. 

H7 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

For  Buddy  the  trips  were  pleasure  jaunts. 
He  was  able  to  play  all  day  with  the  farmer's 
little  daughter,  just  enough  older  than  he 
to  hold  her  own  against  his  imperious  little 
will,  and  Booge  might  have  developed  into 
an  excellent  sawer  of  wood,  but  one  morn- 
ing, the  little  girl  did  not  come  out  to  play 
with  Buddy.  She  was  sick,  and  in  due  time 
Buddy  became  sick  too — plain,  simple 
measles. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Peter  when  one  morn- 
ing he  awakened  to  find  Buddy's  face  cov- 
ered with  the  red  spots  and  the  boy  com- 
plaining, "one  of  us  has  got  to  stay  here  in 
the  boat  and  take  care  of  Buddy." 

"You  'd  better  stay,"  said  Booge  promptly. 
"You  stay,  Peter,  and  I  '11  go  on  up  and  saw 
wood.  I  'm  gettin'  quite  fond  of  it." 

Peter  hesitated.  He  ran  his  hand  over 
the  boy's  white  head  lovingly. 

"Who  do  you  want  to  stay  with  you, 
Buddy?"  he  asked. 

148 


RIVALS 

"I  don't  care,  Uncle  Peter/'  said  Buddy 
listlessly. 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  Peter  took  his 
hand  from  Buddy's  curls. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  stay,  Booge,"  he 
said  then.  "You  can  sing  what  he  likes  bet- 
ter 'n  I  can." 

"Well,  if  you  think  I  can  amuse  him  bet- 
ter 'n  you  can,  I  '11  stay,  Peter,"  said  Booge 
reluctantly.  "If  he  seems  to  hanker  for 
you,  I  '11  fire  the  shot-gun  and  you  can  come 
to  him." 

So  one  of  these  two  men  went  to  his  work, 
and  the  other  seated  himself  on  the  floor  of 
the  cabin  with  his  back  against  the  wall  and 
sang  "Go  Tell  the  Little  Baby,  the  Baby, 
the  Baby,"  through  his  nose,  and  made  faces, 
to  amuse  a  freckle- faced  little  boy  with  a  very 
light  attack  of  the  measles. 


149 


IX 
PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

THE  weather  turned  extremely  cold. 
Peter  came  back  from  his  wood-saw- 
ing one  evening  and  found  Buddy  astride 
a  rocking-horse.  The  table  was  on  top  of 
the  bunk  to  make  room  for  the  horse,  and 
Booge,  robed  in  one  of  the  blankets,  was 
playing  the  part  of  a  badly  scared  Indian 
after  whom  Buddy  was  riding  in  violent 
chase.  For  a  week  Buddy  had  been  well, 
but  Booge  managed  to  make  Peter  think 
he  could  still  see  spots  on  the  boy.  Booge 
had  no  desire  to  begin  sawing  wood  again. 
It  was  much  pleasanter  in  the  shanty-boat 
with  Buddy. 

The  rocking-horse  was  the  oddest  looking 
150 


PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

horse  that  ever  cantered.  Among  the 
driftwood  Booge  had  found  the  remains  of 
an  old  rocking-chair,  and  on  the  rockers  he 
had  mounted  four  willow  legs,  with  .the  bark 
still  on  them,  and  on  these  a  section  of  log 
for  the  body.  With  his  ax  he  had  cut  out 
a  rough  semblance  of  a  head  and  neck  from 
a  pine  board.  The  tail  and  mane  were  seine 
twine.  But  Buddy  thought  it  was  a  great 
horse. 

"Looks  like  you  was  a  great  sculpist,  don't 
it  ?"  said  Peter  jealously,  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing Buddy  riding  recklessly  over  the  prairies 
of  the  shanty-boat  floor.  "So  that's  why 
you  been  trying  to  make  me  think  freckles 
was  measles.  It 's  a  pity  you  did  n't  have  a 
saw  to  work  with." 

tBooge  looked  at  Peter  suspiciously. 

"I  guess  maybe  by  to-morrow  I  can  find 
one  for  you,"  continued  Peter.  "I  saw  a 
right  good  one  up  at  the  farm.  And  quite 
a  lot  of  cord  wood  to  practise  on." 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"If  you  ain't  just  like  a  mind  reader, 
Peter !"  exclaimed  Booge.  "You  must  have 
knowed  I  been  hankerin'  to  get  back  there 
at  that  pleasant  occupation.  But  I  hated  to 
ask  you,  you  're  so  dumb  jealous  of  every- 
thing. It 's  been  so  long  since  you  've  in- 
vited me  to  saw  wood  I  was  beginnin'  to 
think  you  wanted  the  whole  job  for  your- 
self." 

"You  won't  have  to  hanker  to-morrow," 
said  Peter  dryly. 

"To-morrow?  Now,  ain't  that  too  bad!" 
said  Booge.  "To-morrow's  just  the  one 
day  I  can't  saw  wood.  I  been  hired  for  the 
day." 

"Uncle  Booge  is  going  to  make  me  a 
wagon,"  said  Buddy. 

"Uncle  Booge  is  going  to  take  you  up  to 
the  farm  while  he  saws  wood,"  declared 
Peter.  "Uncle  Peter  will  make  you  a  wagon 
later  on,  Buddy." 

"I  want  Uncle  Booge  to  make  me  a  wagon 
152 


PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

to-morrow,"  Buddy  insisted.  "He  said  he 
would  make  me  a  wagon  to-morrow.  With 
wheels." 

"And  a  seat  into  it,"  added  Booge. 

"All  right,"  said  Peter  with  irritation, 
"stay  here  and  make  a  wagon,  then,"  but 
that  night  when  Buddy  was  in  the  bunk  and 
asleep,  Peter  had  a  word  for  Booge. 

"I  don't  want  to  hasten  you  any,  Booge," 
he  said,  trimming  the  handle  of  a  wooden 
spoon  with  great  care  as  he  spoke,  "but  day 
after  to-morrow  you  '11  have  to  pack  your 
valise  and  get  out  of  here.  I  don't  want  to 
seem  inhospitable  or  anything,  but  when  a 
visitor  gets  permission  to  stay  over  night  to 
dry  his  boots,  and  then  camps  down,  and 
loafs,  and  stays  half  the  winter,  and  makes 
wagons  and  horses  there  ain't  no  room  for 
in  the  boat,  he  's  done  about  all  the  staying 
he  's  entitled  to." 

"Buddy's  been  askin'  to  have  me  go 
again !"  said  Booge. 

153 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"No,  he  ain't,"  answered  Peter.     "He— " 

He  caught  the  twinkle  in  Booge's  eye  and 
stopped. 

"Let 's  wake  Buddy  up  and  ask  him/'  said 
Booge. 

"Buddy  ain't  got  anything  to  say  on  this 
matter/'  said  Peter  firmly.  "And  I  ain't 
sending  you  away  because  you  are  trying  to 
play  off  from  doing  your  share  of  wood  saw- 
ing, neither.  I  'm  Buddy's  uncle,  and  I  've 
got  to  look  out  for  how  he  's  raised,  and  I 
don't  want  him  raised  by  no  tramp,  and 
that 's  how  he  9s  being  raised.  Every  day 
I  think  I  '11  chase  you  out  to  saw  wood,  and 
every  day  you  come  it  over  me  somehow, 
and  I  go,  and  you  don't.  I  don't  know  how 
you  do  it,  but  you're  smart  enough  to 
make  a  fool  of  me.  That 's  why  you  got  to 
go." 

"Is  it  ?"  asked  Booge  placidly.  "I  thought 
it  was  because  you  was  jealous  of  me.  Yep, 
that 's  what  I  was  just  thinkin'.  He  's  jeal- 
154 


PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

cms  and  he  don't  care  nothin'  for  what  Buddy 
likes,  or  wants,  or — " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort/'  said  Peter  indig- 
nantly. "You  ain't  no  sort  of  example  to 
set  the  boy.  I  heard  you  swear  this  morn- 
ing when  Buddy  stuck  a  fork  into  you  to 
wake  you  up.  No  man  that  uses  words  like 
you  used  is  the  sort  of  man  I  want  Buddy  to 
be  with." 

Booge  grinned.  There  was  no  use  in  re- 
butting such  an  accusation.  Indeed,  he  felt 
he  had  no  call  to  argue  with  Peter.  Day 
after  to-morrow  was  a  distant  future  for  a 
man  who  had  lately  lived  from  one  meal  to 
the  next.  Booge  believed  Buddy  would  be 
the  final  dictator  in  the  matter,  and  he  was 
sure  of  Buddy  now. 

"So  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  go,"  continued 
Peter.  "For  a  tramp  you  ain't  been  so  bad, 
but  it  crops  out  on  you  every  once  in  awhile, 
and  it 's  liable  to  crop  out  strong  any  time. 
If  it  was  n't  for  the  boy  I  'd  let  you  stay 

155 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

until  the  ice  goes  out.  I  'd  got  just  about  to 
the  point  where  I  was  n't  no  better  than  a 
tramp  myself,  but  when — but  I  've  changed, 
and  I  'm  going  to  change  more/9 

Booge  nodded  an  assent. 

"I  can  almost  notice  a  change  myself/5  he 
said,  "but  the  way  you  're  going  to  change 
ain't  a  marker  to  the  way  I  'm  goin'  to 
change.  I  Ve  been  planning  what  I  'd 
change  into  ever  since  I  come  here.  I  ain't 
quite  decided  whether  to  be  an  angel  cherub, 
like  you — or  a  bank  president.  I  sort  of 
lean  to  being  a  bank  president.  Whiskers 
look  better  on  a  bank  president  than  on  an 
angel  cherub,  but  if  you  think  I  'd  better  be 
an  angel  cherub,  I  '11  shave  up — and  make  a 
stab  at — " 

"You  might  as  well  be  serious,  my  mind  's 
made  up/'  said  Peter  coldly.  "You  got  to 
go." 

"Suppose,"  said  Booge  slowly,  "I  was  to 
withdraw  out  of  this  here  uncle  competition 

156 


PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

and  leave  it  all  to  you?  Suppose  I  let  on  I 
lost  my  singin'  voice  ?" 

"No  use !"  said  Peter  firmly.  "My  mind  's 
settled  on  that  question.  The  longer  you 
stay  the  harder  it  '11  be  to  get  you  to  go. 
I  'm  givin'  you  'til  day  after  to-morrow  be- 
cause I  've  got  to  go  up  to  town  to-morrow. 
We  're  shy  on  food.  If  it  was  n't  for  that 
I  'd  start  you  off  to-morrow." 

"Now,  suppose  I  stop  bein'  Uncle  Booge. 
Say  I  start  bein'  Gran'pa  Booge,  or  Aunt 
Booge,"  proposed  Booge  gravely.  "I  '11  get 
a  gingham  apron  and  a  caliker  dress — " 

"You  '11  get  nothin'  but  out,"  said  Peter 
firmly.  "You  '11  be  nothin5  but  away  from 
here." 

The  trip  to  town  had  become  absolutely 
necessary.  Peter  had  drawn  ten  dollars 
from  the  farmer  and  he  had  some  spoons 
ready  for  sale.  The  farmer  was  going  to 
town  and  Peter  had  at  first  decided  to  take 
Buddy  with  him,  but  the  spoon  peddling  ex- 
157 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

cursion  would,  he  feared,  tire  the  boy  too 
much,  and  he  ended  by  planning  to  let  Booge 
and  Buddy  stay  in  the  shanty-boat. 

It  was  an  index  to  Peter's  changed  opin- 
ion of  the  tramp  that  he  felt  reasonably  safe 
in  leaving  Buddy  in  Booge's  care.  For  one 
thing  Booge  was  sure  to  stay  with  the  boat 
as  long  as  food  held  out  and  work  was  not 
too  pressing.  The  river  had  closed  and  the 
boat  was  solidly  frozen  in  the  slough.  There 
was  no  possibility  of  Booge's  floating  away 
in  it. 

"I  won't  be  back  until  late/'  said  Peter  the 
next  morning  as  he  pinned  his  thin  coat  close 
about  his  neck,  "and  it 's  possible  I  won't 
get  my  spoons  all  sold  out  to-day.  If  I  don't 
I  '11  stay  all  night  with  a  friend  up  town  and 
get  back  somewhere  to-morrow.  And  you 
take  good  care  of  Buddy,  for  if  anything 
happens  to  him  I  '11  hunt  you  up,  no  matter 
where  you  are,  and  make  you  wish  it  had  n't/' 

"Unless  this  horse  runs  away  with  him 

158 


PETER  GIVES  WARNING 

there  ain't  nothin'  to  happen/'  said  Booge. 
"You  need  n't  worry/' 

"And,  Buddy,  if  you  are  a  good  boy  and 
let  Booge  put  you  to  bed,  if  I  don't  get  back, 
Uncle  Peter  will  bring  you  something  you  've 
been  wanting  this  long  while/' 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  bring  me," 
said  Buddy. 

"I  bet  you  do,  you  little  rascal,"  said  Peter, 
thinking  of  the  jack-knife.  "We  both  of  us 
know,  don't  we?  Good-by,  Buddy-boy." 

He  picked  up  the  boy  and  kissed  him. 

"You  don't  know  what  Uncle  Peter  is  go- 
ing to  bring  me,  Uncle  Booge !"  said  Buddy 
joyfully,  when  Peter  was  gone. 

"No,  sir!"  said  Booge. 

"No,  sir!"  repeated  Buddy.  "Cause  I 
know !  Uncle  Peter  's  going  to  bring  me 
back  my  mama." 


X 

A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

BOOGE  waited  until  he  knew  Peter  was 
well  on  his  way.  Then  he  took  Buddy 
on  his  knee. 

"Where  is  your  ma,  Buddy?"  he  asked. 

"Mama  went  away,"  said  Buddy  vaguely. 

"Did  she  go  away  from  this  boat  ?" 

"Yes.  Let's  make  a  wagon,  Uncle 
Booge,"  but  Booge  was  not  ready.  He  con- 
sidered his  next  question  carefully. 

"We  '11  make  that  wagon  right  soon,"  he 
said.  "Was  Uncle  Peter  your  pa  before 
your  ma  went  away?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Buddy  indefinitely. 

"You'd  ought  to  know  whether  he  was 
or  not,"  said  Booge.  "Didn't  you  call 
160 


A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

Uncle  Peter  'pa,'  or  'papa'  or  'daddy'  or 
something  like  that?" 

"No,"  said  Buddy.  "You  said  you  'd 
make  a  wagon,  Uncle  Booge." 

"Right  away!"  said  Booge.  "What  did 
you  call  Uncle  Peter  before  your  ma  went 
away,  Buddy?" 

The  child  looked  at  Booge  in  surprise. 

"Why,  'course  I  did  n't  call  him  at  all," 
he  said  as  if  Booge  should  have  known  as 
much.  "He  was  n't  my  Uncle  Peter,  then." 

"Your  ma  just  sort  of  stayed  around  the 
boat,  did  she?" 

"No,  my  mama  corned  to  the  boat,  and  I 
corned  to  the  boat,  and  my  mama  went  away. 
But  Uncle  Peter  and  Buddy  didn't  not  go 
away.  I  want  to  make  a  wagon,  Uncle 
Booge." 

"Just  one  minute  and  we  '11  make  that 
wagon,  Buddy,"  said  Booge.     "I  just  want 
to  get  this  all  straight  first.     What  did  your 
ma  do  when  she  came  to  the  boat  ?" 
161 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Mama  cried,"  said  Buddy. 

"I  bet  you !"  said  Booge.  "And  what  did 
your  ma  do  then,  Buddy?" 

"Mama  hit  Uncle  Peter/5  said  Buddy, 
"and  Mama  went  away,  and  Uncle  Peter 
floated  the  boat,  and  I  floated  the  boat.  And 
I  steered  the  boat." 

"And  your  ma  left  you  with  Uncle  Peter 
when  she  went  away,"  said  Booge.  "What 
was  your  ma's  name,  Buddy.  Was  it 
Lane?" 

"It  was  Mama,"  said  Buddy. 

"But  what  was  your  name?"  insisted 
Booge.  "What  did  you  say  your  name  was 
when  anybody  said,  'What 's  your  name,  little 
boy?'" 

"Buddy,"  said  the  boy. 

"Buddy  what?"  urged  Booge. 

"Mama's  Buddy." 

Booge  drew  a  deep  breath.  For  five  min- 
utes more  he  questioned  the  boy,  while 
Buddy  grew  more  and  more  impatient  to  be 
162 


A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

at  the  wagon-making.  Of  Buddy's  past 
Peter  had,  of  course,  never  told  Booge  a 
word,  but  the  tramp  had  his  own  idea  of  it. 
He  felt  that  Peter  was  no  ordinary  shanty- 
boat  man,  and  he  imputed  Peter's  silence  re- 
garding the  boy's  past  and  parentage  to  a  de- 
sire on  Peter's  part  to  shake  himself  free  from 
that  past.  Why  was  Peter  continually  tell- 
ing that  he  had  begun  a  more  respectable  life  ? 
Peter's  wife  might  have  been  one  of  the  low 
shanty-boat  women,  a  shiftless  mother  and 
a  worse  than  shiftless  wife,  running  away 
from  Peter  only  to  bring  back  the  boy  when 
he  became  a  burden,  taking  what  money 
Peter  had  and  going  away  again.  Possibly 
Peter  had  never  been  married  to  the  woman. 
In  digging  into  Buddy's  memories  Booge 
hoped  to  find  some  thread  that  would  give 
him  a  hold  on  Peter,  however  slight.  Booge 
liked  the  comfortable  boat,  but  deeper  than 
his  love  of  idleness  had  grown  an  affection 
for  the  cheerful  boy  and  for  simple-minded 
163 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter.  If  Peter  had  chosen  this  out-of-the- 
way  slough  for  his  winter  harbor — when 
shanty-boat  people  usually  came  nearer  the 
towns — in  order  that  he  might  keep  himself 
in  hiding  from  the  troublesome  wife,  veiling 
himself  and  the  boy  from  discovery  by  giv- 
ing out  that  he  and  Buddy  were  uncle  and 
nephew,  it  was  no  more  than  Booge  would 
have  done. 

"I  suppose,  when  your  ma  come  to  the 
boat,  she  slept  in  the  bunk,  did  n't  she  ?"  asked 
Booge. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Booge,"  said  Buddy.  "I  want 
you  to  make  a  wagon." 

"All  right,  bo!"  said  Booge  gleefully. 
"Come  ahead  and  make  a  wagon.  And 
when  Uncle  Peter  comes  back  we  '11  have  a 
nice  surprise  for  him.  We  '11  shout  out  at 
him,  when  he  comes  in,  'Hello,  Papa!'  and 
just  see  what  he  says.  That  '11  be  fun,  won't 
it?" 

Booge  worked  on  the  wagon  all  morning. 
164 


A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

Toward  noon  he  made  a  meal  for  himself  and 
Buddy,  and  set  to  work  on  the  wagon  again. 
He  had  found  a  canned-corn  box  that  did 
well  enough  for  the  body,  and  he  chopped 
out  wheels  as  well  as  he  could  with  the  ax. 
He  wished,  by  the  time  he  had  completed  one 
wheel,  that  he  had  told  Buddy  it  was  to  be  a 
sled  rather  than  a  wagon,  but  he  could  not 
persuade  the  boy  that  a  sled  would  be  better, 
and  he  had  to  keep  on. 

He  worked  on  the  clean  ice  before  the 
shanty-boat  and  he  was  deep  in  his  work 
when  Buddy  asked  a  question. 

"Who  is  that  man,  Uncle  Booge?"  he 
asked. 

Booge  glanced  up  quickly.  Across  the 
ice,  from  the  direction  of  the  road  a  man  was 
coming.  He  was  well  wrapped  in  overcoat 
and  cap  and  he  advanced  steadily,  without 
haste.  Booge  leaned  on  his  ax  and  waited. 
When  the  man  was  quite  near  Booge  said, 
"Hello!" 

165 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Good  afternoon/'  said  the  stranger. 
"Are  you  Peter  Lane  ?" 

Booge's  little  eyes  studied  the  stranger 
sharply.  The  man,  for  all  the  bulk  given 
him  by  his  ulster  and  cap,  had  a  small,  sharp 
face,  and  his  eyes  were  shrewd  and  shifty. 

"Mebby  I  am/'  rumbled  Booge,  crossing 
his  legs  and  putting  one  hand  on  his  hip  and 
one  on  his  forehead,  "and  mebby  I  ain't.  Let 
me  recall !  Now,  if  I  was  Peter  Lane,  what 
might  you  want  of  me?" 

The  stranger  smiled  ingratiatingly  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

"My — my  name/'  he  said  slowly,  "is 
Briggles — Reverend  Rasmer  Briggles,  of 
Derlingport.  My  duty  here  is,  I  may  say, 
one  that,  if  you  are  Peter  Lane,  should  give 
you  cause  only  for  satisfaction.  Extreme 
satisfaction.  Yes !" 

Booge  was  watching  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Briggles  closely. 

"I  bet  that 's  so !"  he  said.  "I  sort  of  re- 
166 


A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

call  now  that  I  am  Peter  Lane.  And  I  don't 
know  when  I  Ve  had  any  extreme  satisfac- 
tion. I  '11  be  glad  to  have  some." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Briggles  rather  doubt- 
fully. "Yes!  I  am  the  President  of  the 
Child  Rescue  Society,  an  organization  incor- 
porated to  rescue  ill-cared-for  children,  pla- 
cing them  in  good  homes — " 

"Buddy/'  said  Booge  roughly,  "you  go 
into  that  boat.  And  you  stay  there.  Un- 
derstand?" 

The  child  did  as  he  was  told.  Booge's  tone 
was  one  he  had  never  heard  the  tramp  use, 
and  it  frightened  him. 

"It  has  come  to  my  attention,"  said  Mr. 
Briggles,  "that  there  is  a  child  here.  You 
will  admit  this  is  no  place  for  a  tender  little 
child.  You  may  do  your  best  for  him  but 
the  influence  of  a  good  home  must  be  sadly 
lacking  in  such  a  place.  In  fact,  I  have  an 
order  from  the  court — " 

He  began  unbuttoning  his  ulster. 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"I  bet  you  have!"  said  Booge  genially. 
"So,  if  you  want  to,  you  can  sit  right  down 
on  that  bank  there  and  read  it.  And  if  it 's 
in  po'try  you  can  sing  it.  And  if  you  can't 
sing,  and  you  hang1  'round  here  for  half  an 
hour,  I  '11  come  out  and  sing  it  for  you.  Just 
now  I  Ve  got  to  go  in  and  sing  my  scales/' 

He  boosted  himself  to  the  deck  of  the 
shanty-boat  and  went  inside,  closing  and  lock- 
ing the  door.  In  a  moment  Mr.  Briggles, 
out  in  the  cold,  heard  Booge  burst  into  song: 

Go  tell  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 
Go  tell  the  little  baby  he  can't  go  out  to-day ; 
Go  tell  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 
Go  tell  the  little  baby  old  Briggles  needn't  stay. 

Mr.  Briggles  stood  holding  the  court  order 
in  his  hand.  Armed  with  the  law,  he  had 
every  advantage  on  his  side.  He  clambered 
up  the  bank  and  stepped  to  the  deck  of  the 
shanty-boat.  He  rapped  sharply  on  the  door. 

"Mr.  Lane,  open  this  door !"  he  ordered. 

The  door  opened  with  unexpected  sudden- 
168 


A  VIOLENT  INCIDENT 

ness  and  Booge  threw  his  arms  around  Mr. 
Briggles  and  lifted  him  from  his  feet.  He 
drew  him  forward  as  if  to  hug  him,  and  then, 
with  a  mighty  out-thrust  of  his  arms,  cast 
him  bodily  off  the  deck.  Mr.  Briggles  fell 
full  on  the  newly  constructed  wagon,  and 
there  was  a  crash  of  breaking  wood.  Booge 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  deck  and  looked  down 
at  him.  The  man  was  wedged  into  the  rough 
wagon  box,  his  feet  and  legs  hanging  over. 
He  was  bleeding  at  the  nose,  and  his  face 
was  rather  scratched.  He  was  white  with 
fear  or  anger.  Booge  laughed. 

"I  owed  you  that/'  he  rumbled.  "I  owed 
you  that  since  the  day  you  married  me.  And 
now  I  '11  give  you  what  I  owe  you  for  coming 
after  this  boy/' 

He  jumped  down  from  the  deck,  and  Mr. 
Briggles  struggled  to  release  himself  from 
the  wagon-box.  He  was  caught  fast.  He 
kicked  violently,  and  Booge  grinned.  If 
he  had  intended  punishing  the  interloper 
169 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

further,  he  changed  his  mind.  The  lake  lay 
wide  and  smooth,  with  only  a  pile  of  snow 
here  and  there,  and  Booge  grasped  the  dam- 
aged wagon  and  pushed  it.  Like  a  sled  it 
slid  along  on  its  broken  wheels,  and  Booge 
ran,  gathering  speed  as  he  ran,  until,  with 
a  last  push,  he  sent  the  wagon  and  Mr.  Brig- 
gles  skimming  alone  over  the  glassy  surface 
of  the  lake  toward  the  road.  Then  he  went 
into  the  shanty-boat  and  closed  and  locked  the 
door. 


170 


XI 
PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

F)ETER  reached  town  about  noon,  and 
-*-  set  about  his  peddling  at  once,  going 
to  the  better  residential  sections,  where  his 
spoons  were  in  demand,  and  so  successful 
was  he  that  by  three  o'clock  he  had  but  a  few 
left  to  trade  at  the  grocer's.  He  made  his 
purchases  with  great  care,  for  his  list  had 
grown  large  in  spite  of  the  refillings  of  his 
larder  from  time  to  time  through  the  errands 
in  town  done  for  him  by  the  farmer.  He 
bought  the  Bible  and  the  A.  B.  C.  blocks,  and 
a  red  sweater,  stockings  for  Buddy  and  socks 
for  himself,  and  the  provisions  he  needed, 
and  a  bright,  new  jack-knife  for  Buddy.  All 
these  he  tied  in  a  big  gunny-sack,  except  the 
knife,  slung  the  sack  over  his  shoulders,  and 
171 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

went  down  to  report  to  George  Rapp,  stop- 
ping at  the  Post  Office,  where  he  asked  for 
mail.  The  clerk  handed  him,  among  the  cir- 
culars and  other  advertising  matter,  a  letter. 

Peter  turned  the  letter  over  and  over  in 
his  hand.  He  had  a  sister,  but  this  letter 
was  not  from  her.  It  was  addressed  in  pen- 
cil and  bore  the  local  postmark.  Peter  held 
it  to  the  light,  playing  with  the  mystery  as 
a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  and  finally  opened 
it.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Potter. 

"Now  I  know  all  about  you,  Peter  Lane," 
it  ran,  "and  not  much  good  I  must  say,  al- 
though I  might  have  expected  it,  and  I  am 
much  surprised  and  such  shiftlessness  and 
you  might  have  let  me  know  that  woman  was 
sick  for  I  am  not  a  heathen  whatever  you  may 
think.  I  want  you  to  come  and  get  your 
clock  out  of  my  sight  and  if  you  have  time 
to  saw  me  some  wood  I  will  pay  cash.  Mrs. 
Potter." 

Peter  folded  the  letter  slowly  and  put  it 
172 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

in  his  pocket.  He  knew  very  well  the  widow 
had  no  cause  to  single  him  out  to  saw  her 
wood,  and  that  she  would  not  be  apt  to  write 
him  for  that  reason,  howevermuch  she  might 
underscore  "cash."  That  she  should  write 
him  about  the  clock  was  not  sufficient  excuse 
for  a  letter.  There  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  write  to  him  at  all,  unless  the  under- 
scoring of  "that  woman"  meant  she  had 
heard  how  he  had  taken  the  woman  and  her 
boy  in  and  it  had  given  her  a  better  opinion 
of  him.  If  that  was  so  Peter  meant  to  keep 
far  from  Mrs.  Potter!  He  began  to  fear 
George  Rapp  might  be  right,  and  that  the 
widow  had  an  eye  on  him — a  matrimonial 
eye.  When  widows  begin  writing  let- 
ters! 

When  Peter  entered  George  Rapp's  livery 
stable,  Rapp  was  superintending  the  harness- 
ing of  a  colt. 

"Hello!"  he  called  heartily.  "How's 
Peter?  How 's  the  boat?  Friend  of  yours 
173 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

was  just  enquiring  for  you  in  here.  Friend 
from  up  the  river  road." 

"She — who  was?" 

"You  guess  it!"  laughed  Rapp.  "Widow 
Potter.  Say,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  you 
were  married?" 

"Me?  Married  to  Widow  Potter?"  cried 
Peter,  aghast.  "I  never  in  my  life  married 
her,  George!" 

"Oh,  not  herf  said  Rapp.  "Not  her  yet; 
the  other  woman.  You  with  a  boy  three  or 
four  years  old,  posing  around  as  a  goody- 
goody  bachelor.  But  that 's  the  way  with 
you  too-good  fellows.  Hope  you  can  keep 
your  little  son." 

"My  son?"  stammered  Peter.  "But  he  's 
not  my  son — not  my  own  son." 

"Gee  whiz!  Is  that  so!"  said  Rapp  with 
surprise.  "She  was  that  bad,  was  she? 
Well,  it  does  you  all  the  more  credit,  taking 
him  to  raise.  Anybody  else  would  have  sent 
him  to  the  poor  farm  or  to  old  snoozer  Brig- 

174 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

gles.  You  beat  anything  I  ever  seen,  with 
your  wives  nobody  ever  guessed  you  had,  and 
your  sons  that  ain't  your  sons.  What  makes 
you  act  so  mysterious?" 

Peter  put  his  gunny-sack  on  the  floor. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about, 
George,"  he  said.  "What  is  it  you  think  you 
know?" 

"I  think  I  know  all  about  it,"  said  Rapp 
laughingly.  "Come  into  the  office.  What 
a  man  in  the  livery  stable  don't  hear  ain't 
worth  finding  out.  I  know  your  wife  come 
back  to  you  at  the  shanty-boat,  Peter,  when 
she  was  sick  and  played  out  and  had  n't  no- 
where else  to  go,  and  I  know  you  took  her 
in  and  got  a  doctor  for  her,  and  I  know  she 
brought  along  her  boy,  which  you  say  ain't 
your  son.  And  I  know  you  sold  me  your 
boat  so  you  could  take  her  down  river  and 
bury  her  decent,  just  as  if  she  hadn't  ever 
run  off  from  you — " 

"Who  said  she  was  my  wife?    Who  said 

175 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

she  run  off  from  me?"  asked  Peter.  "You 
tell  me  that,  George!" 

"Why,  Widow  Potter  said  so/'  said  Rapp. 
"Everybody  knows  about  it.  There  was  a 
piece  in  the  paper  about  it.  The  Doc  you 
had  up  there  told  it  all  around  town,  I  guess. 
And  Widow  Potter  is  so  interested  she  can't 
sit  still.  She  's  just  naturally  bothering  the 
life  out  of  me.  She  says  she  's  buying  a 
horse  from  me,  but  that  's  all  gee  whix.  Any- 
way, she  's  dropped  in  to  look  at  a  colt  near 
every  day  lately,  and  sort  of  enquires  if 
you  Ve  been  up  to  town.  She  says  she  can 
understand  a  lot  of  things  she  could  n't  be- 
fore. She  says  she  can  forgive  you  a  lot  of 
things,  now  she  knows  what  kind  of  a  wife 
you  had.  She  says  it 's  some  excuse  for  be- 
ing shiftless.  She 's  anxious  to  see  you, 
Peter." 

"She  ain't  in  town  now,  is  she?"  asked 
Peter  nervously.  "You  did  n't  tell  her  I  was 
likely  to  stop  in  here  ?" 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

"I  just  naturally  had  to  tell  her  some- 
thing/' Rapp  said.  "She 's  plumb  crazy. 
She  says  she  's  willing  to  let  by-gones  be 
by-gones ;  that  it 's  all  as  plain  as  day  to  her 


now." 


"All  what?"  asked  poor  Peter. 

"Why,  all,"  said  Rapp.  "Everything. 
The  whole  business.  Why  you  did  n't  marry 
her  long  ago,  I  reckon.  She  did  n't  say  so  in 
that  many  words,  but  she  spoke  about  how 
curious  it  was  a  man  could  hang  around  a 
woman  year  in  and  year  out,  and  saw  three 
times  as  much  wood  for  her  as  need  be,  and 
take  any  sort  of  tongue  lashing  as  meek  as 
Moses,  and  look  kind  of  marriage-like,  and 
not  do  it.  She  said  a  woman  couldn't  un- 
derstand that  sort  of  thing,  but  it  was  easy  to 
understand  when  she  knew  you  had  a  wife 
somewhere.  She  said  she  's  sorry  for  your 
loss,  and  she  'd  like  you  to  come  right  up  and 
see  her." 

Rapp  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed 
177 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Did  she  honestly  say  that?"  asked  Peter, 
very  white. 

"Did  she!"  said  Rapp.  "You  ought  to 
hear  what  she  said,  and  me  trying  to  sell  her 
that  bay  colt  of  mine  all  the  time.  'Good 
withers  on  this  animal,  Mrs.  Potter/  'Well, 
he  may  be  considered  worthless  by  some/ 
says  she,  'but  I  Ve  studied  him  many  a  year, 
and  the  whole  trouble  is  he 's  too  good/ 
'And  he  's  a  speedy  colt,  speedy  but  strong/ 
says  I.  'Having  a  wife  like  that  is  what  did 
it/  says  she,  'for  a  wife  like  that  chastens  a 
man  too  much,  but  I  guess  he  '11  be  more 
human  now  she  's  gone,  and  look  after  his 
own  rights/  'Want  the  colt?'  I  says,  and 
she  just  stared  at  the  animal  without  seeing 
him  and  says,  'For  my  part  I  'd  enjoy  having 
a  small  boy  about  the  house/  ' 

"Did  she  say  that?"  asked  Peter.  "She 
didn't  say  that!" 

"I  never  told  anything  nearer  the  truth," 
Rapp  assured  him.  "She  said  that  she  be- 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

lieved,  now,  you  were  a  fully  proper  person  to 
raise  a  small  boy,  but  that  if  Briggles  was 
bound  to  take  the  boy,  she — " 

"Briggles  ?"  asked  Peter  breathlessly. 
"Who  is  Briggles?  What  has  he  got  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Don't  you  know  who  Briggles  is  ?"  asked 
Rapp  with  real  surprise.  "He  used  to  be  a 
Reverend,  but  he  got  kicked  out,  I  hear  say. 
He  hires  a  team  now  and  again  to  take  a  child 
out  in  the  country." 

"What  does  he  take  children  to  the  country 
for?" 

"To  put  them  in  families,"  Rapp  explained, 
and  he  told  Peter  how  Mr.  Briggles  hunted 
up  children  for  the  Society  he  had  organized ; 
how  he  collected  money  and  spent  the  money, 
and  put  the  children  in  any  family  that  would 
take  them,  and  paid  himself  twenty  dollars 
a  child  for  doing  it,  charging  mileage  and 
expense  extra.  "Last  time  he  come  down 
here  he  had  a  nice  little  girl  from  Derling- 
179 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

port,"  said  Rapp.  "Her  name  was  Susie. 
He  put  her  with  a  woman  named  Crink." 

"Susie  ?     Susie  what  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  felt  sorry  for  her. 
He  might  as  well  have  put  her  in  hell  as  with 
that  Crink  woman.  He  '11  probably  get 
twenty  dollars  by-and-by  for  taking  her.  out 
and  putting  her  somewheres  else,  if  they 
don't  work  her  to  death.  It 's  'God  help 
the  little  children  but  give  me  the  money/ 
so  far  as  I  see.  He  gets  an  order  from  the 
court,  just  like  he  did  in  your  case — " 

Peter  had  let  himself  drop  into  a  chair  as 
Rapp  talked  but  now  he  leaped  from  it. 

"What's  that?  He  ain't  after  Buddy?" 
he  cried  aghast. 

"He  drove  down  to-day,"  said  Rapp.  "I 
told  him—" 

But  Peter  was  gone.  He  slammed  the  of- 
fice door  so  hard  that  one  of  the  small  panes 
of  glass  clattered  tinklingly  to  the  floor.  He 
slung  his  gunny-sack  over  his  shoulder  and 
180 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

was  dog-trotting  down  the  incline  into  the 
street  before  George  Rapp  could  get  to  his 
feet,  for  Rapp  was  never  hasty.  Along  the 
street  toward  the  feed-yard,  where  his 
farmer  friend  had  put  up  his  team,  Peter  ran, 
the  heavy  sack  swinging  from  side  to  side 
over  his  shoulder  and  almost  swinging  him 
off  his  feet.  He  had  spent  more  time  at 
Rapp's  than  he  had  intended,  but  he  met  the 
farmer  driving  out  of  the  feed-yard  and 
threw  the  sack  into  the  wagon  bed. 

" Whoa-up !"  said  the  farmer,  pulling  hard 
on  his  reins,  but  Peter  was  already  on  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"Get  along,"  he  cried.  "I  want  to  get 
home.  I  want  to  get  home  quick/' 

Through  all  the  long  ride  Peter  sat  star- 
ing straight  ahead,  holding  tight  to  the 
wagon  seat.  The  cold  wind  blew  against  his 
face  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  He  was  think- 
ing of  Buddy — of  tow-headed,  freckled-faced, 
blue-eyed,  merry  Buddy,  perhaps  already  on 
181 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

his  way  to  a  "good  home"  like  the  "good 
home"  to  which  Susie  had  been  condemned. 
There  were  no  hills  and  the  horses,  with 
their  light  load  and  a  driver  with  several 
warming  drinks  in  his  body,  covered  most 
of  the  distance  at  a  good  trot,  but  when  the 
track  left  the  road  to  avoid  the  snow-drifts 
that  covered  it  in  places,  and  the  horses 
slowed  to  a  walk,  Peter  longed  to  get  down 
and  run.  It  was  long  after  dark  when  they 
reached  the  gate  that  opened  into  Rapp's  low- 
land, and  Peter  did  not  stop  to  take  his  pur- 
chases from  the  wagon.  He  did  not  wait  to 
open  the  gate,  but  cleared  it  at  one  leap  and 
ran  down  the  faintly  defined  path,  between 
the  trees  and  bushes,  as  fast  as  he  could  run. 
Years  in  the  open  had  mended  the  weak 
lungs  that  had  driven  him  to  the  open  air, 
but  long  before  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
shanty-boat  his  breath  was  coming  in  great 
sobs  and  he  was  gasping  painfully.  But 
still  he  kept  on,  falling  into  a  dog-trot  and 
182 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

pressing  his  elbows  close  against  his  sides, 
breathing  through  his  open  mouth.  The 
path  was  rough,  rising  and  falling,  littered 
with  branches  and  roots.  The  calves  of  his 
legs  seemed  swelled  to  bursting.  Time  and 
again  he  fell  but  scrambled  up  and  ran  on 
until  at  last  he  caught  sight  of  the  light  in 
the  cabin-boat  window.  He  stopped  and 
leaned  with  his  hand  against  a  tree,  striving 
to  get  one  last  breath  sufficient  to  carry  him 
to  the  boat,  and  as  he  stopped  he  heard  the 
shrill  falsetto  of  Booge: 

Go  wash  th£  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  and  give  it  toast  and  tea, 

Go  wash  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 

Go  wash  the  little  baby  and  bring  it  back  to  me. 

It  was  Buddy's  supper  song. 

"Sing  it  again,  Uncle  Booge!  Sing  it 
again!"  came  Buddy's  sharply  commanding 
voice,  and  Peter  wrapped  his  arms  around 
the  tree  trunk,  and  laid  his  forehead  against 
it.  He  was  happy,  but  trembling  so  violently 

183 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

that  the  branches  of  the  small  elm  shook 
above  his  head.  He  twined  his  legs  around 
the  tree,  to  still  their  trembling,  and  hugged 
the  tree  close,  for  he  felt  as  if  he  would  be 
shaken  to  pieces.  Even  his  forehead  rattled 
against  the  bark  of  the  trunk,  but  he  was 
happy.  Buddy  was  not  gone ! 

He  clung  there  while  his  breath  slowly 
returned,  and  until  his  trembling  dwindled 
into  mere  shivers,  listening  to  Booge  boom 
and  trill  his  songs,  and  to  Buddy  clamor 
for  more.  And  as  he  stepped  toward  the 
boat  Booge's  voice  took  up  a  new  verse ;  one 
Peter  had  never  heard : — 

We  took  the  old  kazoozer,  kazoozer,  kazoozer, 
We  grabbed  the  old  kazoozer  and  tore  his  preacher 

clothes ; 

We  kicked  the  old  ka-boozer,  ka-doozer,  ka-hoozer, 
We  scratched  the  old  ka-roozer  and  smote  him  on 

the  n-o-s-e! 

Peter  opened  the  door.  Buddy  flew  from 
his  seat  on  the  bunk  and  threw  himself  into 
Peter's  arms. 

184 


PETER  HEARS  NEWS 

"Uncle  Peter!  Uncle  Peter!"  he  cried. 
"Did  you  bring  me  my  mama?" 

"No,  Buddy-boy/'  said  Peter  gently. 
"She 's  off  on  the  long  trip  yet.  We 
mustn't  fret  about  that.  Ain't  you  glad 
Uncle  Peter  come  back?" 

"Yes — and — and  Uncle  Booge  made  me  a 
wagon,"  said  Buddy,  "and  it  got  broke." 

"A  feller  sort  of  fell  on  it,"  explained 
Booge  carelessly,  "and  busted  it.  He  come 
visiting  when  we  was  n't  ready  for  com- 

P'ny." 

Peter  listened  while  Booge  told  the  story 
of  Mr.  Briggles's  arrival,  reception  and  de- 
parture. 

"And  he  failed  on  the  wagon  and  broke  it," 
said  Buddy,  "and  Booge  slided  him.  And 
Booge  is  going  to  mend  my  wagon." 

"Maybe  Uncle  Peter  '11  mend  it  for  you, 
Buddy,"  said  Booge.  "I  guess  Booge  has 
got  to  take  a  trip,  like  your  ma  did,  to-mor- 


row." 


185 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"You  couldn't  talk  sense  if  you  tried, 
could  you  ?"  said  Peter  with  vexation.  "You 
are  going  to  stay  here  every  bit  as  long  as  I 
do.  Ain't  he,  Buddy-boy?" 


186 


XII 
THE  RETURN  OF  "OLD  KAZOOZER" 

I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Peter/'  said 
Booge  after  a  minute,  "but  I  'm  afraid 
I  can't  stay.  I  got  a  telegram  saying  Ca- 
ruso 's  got  a  cold  and  I  Ve  got  to  go  to  New 
York  and  sing  grand  opry." 

"You  're  real  welcome  to  stay,"  said  Peter, 
warming  his  hands  over  the  stove.  "I  'd  like 
you  to  stay.  That  feller  is  sure  to  come 
back." 

"He  's  got  a  court  order,"  said  Booge.  "I 
guess  he  heard  you  was  so  kind  hearted 
you  'd  hand  Buddy  right  over  to  him  and 
say,  Thank  you,  mister.'  I  surprised  him." 

Booge  looked  at  Buddy,  playing  on  the 
floor. 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Ain't  it  funny  how  you  get  attached  to  a 
kid?"  he  asked.  "I  was  just  as  mad  when 
that  old  kazoozer  said  he  was  going  to  take 
Buddy  as  if  he  was  after  my  own  boy,  instead 
of  yours." 

"I  guess  they  think  this  ain't  a  good  enough 
home  for  him,"  said  Peter. 

He  looked  about  the  cabin  with  new  inter- 
est. To  Peter  it  had  seemed  all  that  a  home 
need  be,  and  he  had  been  proud  of  it  and  satis- 
fied with  it,  but  now  it  looked  poor  and 
shabby.  There  were  no  chairs  with  tidies  on 
them,  no  chairs  at  all;  there  was  no  piano 
lamp ;  nor  even  a  hanging  lamp  with  prisms ; 
no  carpet,  not  even  a  rug.  It  was  not  a 
"good  home,"  it  was  only  a  shanty-boat,  not 
much  better  than  any  other  shanty-boat,  and 
it  was  not  even  Peter's  shanty-boat.  It  was 
George  Rapp's. 

Booge  was  ramming  his  belongings  into 
his  valise. 

"Not  a  good  enough  home?"  he  growled. 
188 


RETURN  OF  "OLD  KAZOOZER" 

"What  do  they  want  for  a  home?  A  town 
hall  or  an  op'ry  house  ?" 

"It 's  all  right  for  you  or  me,  Booge,"  said 
Peter,  "but  what  would  be  a  good  home  for 
a  couple  of  old  hard-shells  like  us  ain't  what 
a  boy  like  Buddy  ought  to  have.  I  '11  bet 
we  're  eight  miles  from  a  Sunday  school." 

"My,  my !"  said  Booge.  "I  would  n't  have 
remained  here  a  minute  if  I  had  thought  I 
was  that  far  from  Sunday  school." 

"And  we  're  two  miles  from  a  woman.  A 
boy  like  Buddy  ought  to  be  nearer  a  woman 
than  that.  When  I  was  a  little  tyke  like  him 
I  was  always  right  up  against  my  ma's  knee." 

"And  look  how  fine  you  turned  out  to  be," 
said  Booge. 

"Well,  a  place  ain't  a  home  unless  there 's 
a  woman  in  it,"  said  Peter  gravely.  "I  can 
see  that  now.  I  thought  when  I  built  this 
boat  I  had  a  home,  but  I  had  n't.  And  when 
I  got  Buddy  I  thought  I  had  a  home  for  sure, 
but  I  had  n't.  I  never  thought  there  ought  to 

189 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

be  a  woman.  I  went  at  it  wrong  end  to.  I  'd 
ought  to  have  looked  up  a  woman  first.  Then 
I  could  have  got  a  house.  And  the  boy  would 
tag  on  somewheres  along  after.  Only  it 
would  n't  have  been  Buddy.  I  guess  I  'd 
rather  have  Buddy/' 

Booge  snapped  his  valise  shut  and  looked 
about  for  any  stray  bit  of  clothing  belonging 
to  him. 

"You  won't  have  him  if  you  don't  look 
out,"  he  said.  "You  'd  stand  there  until  that 
old  kazoozer  come  back  and  took  him,  if  I  'd 
let  you.  Of  course,  if  you  're  the  sort  to  give 
him  up,  I  ain't  got  a  word  to  say." 

"I  ain't  that  sort!"  said  Peter  hotly.  "If 
that  man  comes  back  I  've  got  the  shot-gun, 
ain't  I?  Of  course,"  he  said  more  gently, 
"unless  Buddy  wants  to  go.  You  don't  want 
to  go  away  from  Uncle  Peter,  do  you 
Buddy?" 

"No!"  said  Buddy  in  a  way  that  left  no 
doubt. 

190 


RETURN  OF  "OLD  KAZOOZER" 

"I  can't  do  anything  until  that  man  comes 
back/'  said  Peter  helplessly.  "Maybe  he 
won't  come." 

"Don't  you  fret  about  that;  he'll  come/' 
said  Booge,  grinning.  "He  's  got  my  address 
and  number  scratched  on  his  face,  and  I  'd 
ought  to  clear  out  right  now,  but  you  see  how 
I  've  got  to  help  you  out  when  trouble  comes. 
You  Ve  like  a  child,  Peter.  You  and 
Buddy  would  do  for  twins.  When  old 
kazoozer  comes  back  he  '11  bring  a  wagon- 
load  of  sheriffs  and  a  cannon  or  something. 
What  would  you  do  if  you  come  to  me  with 
a  peaceable  court  order,  and  got  throwed  all 
over  a  toy  wagon?" 

"If  he  can  shoot,  I  can  shoot,"  said  Peter. 

"I  bet!  And  get  Buddy  shot  all  full  of 
holes?  We've  got  to  skedaddle  and  scoot 
and  vamoose, — listen !" 

In  the  silence  that  followed  they  could  hear 
voices — a  number  of  voices — and  Buddy 
crept  to  Peter's  side  and  clung  to  his  knee, 
191 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

frightened  by  the  tense  expression  on  the  two 
uncles'  faces.  Peter  stood  with  one  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  table  and  the  other  clutching 
Buddy's  arm.  Suddenly  he  put  out  his  free 
hand  and  grasped  his  shot-gun.  Booge 
jerked  it  away  from  him  and  slid  it  under  the 
bunk. 

"You  idiot !"  he  said.  "What  good  would 
that  do  you  ?  Listen — have  you  got  any  place 
you  can  take  the  kid  to  if  you  get  away  from 
here?" 

"I  've  got  a  sister  up  near  town — " 

"All  right !  Now,  I  'm  going  to  sing,  and 
whilst  I  sing  you  get  Buddy's  duds  on,  and 
your  own,  and  be  ready  to  skin  out  the  back 
door  with  him.  I  can  hold  off  any  constable 
that  ever  was — long  enough  to  give  you  a 
start,  anyway — and  then  you  've  got  to  look 
out  for  yourself." 

Peter  hurried  Buddy  into  his  outer  coat 
and  hat,  and  Booge  searched  the  breadbox 
for  portable  food,  as  he  sang  in  his  deepest 
192 


RETURN  OF  "OLD  KAZOOZER" 

bass.  He  crowded  some  cold  corn  cake  into 
Peter's  pocket,  and  some  into  his  own  as  he 
sang,  and  as  his  song  ended  he  whispered: 
"Hurry  now !  I  'm  goin'  to  put  out  this  lamp 
in  a  minute,  and  when  it 's  out  you  slide  out 
of  that  back  door — quick,  you  understand?" 
He  let  his  voice  rise  to  his  falsetto.  "Sing  it 
again,  Uncle  Booge!"  he  cried,  imitating 
Buddy's  voice.  "No,  Buddy  's  got  to  go  to 
sleep  now,"  he  growled  and  the  next  instant 
the  shanty-boat's  interior  was  dark. 
"Scoot !"  he  whispered,  and  Peter  opened  the 
rear  door  of  the  cabin  and  stepped  out  upon 
the  small  rear  deck.  He  stood  an  instant 
listening  and  dropped  to  the  ice,  sliding  in  be- 
hind the  willows,  and  the  next  moment  he 
was  around  the  protecting  point,  and  hurry- 
ing down  the  slough  on  the  snow-covered  ice, 
with  Buddy  held  tight  in  his  arms.  He  heard 
Booge  throw  open  the  other  door  of  the  boat 
and  begin  a  noisy  confab  with  the  men  on  the 
shore.  Booge  was  bluffing — telling  them  they 

193 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

had  lost  their  way,  that  they  had  come  to  the 
wrong  boat,  that  there  was  no  boy  there. 
Peter  had  crossed  the  slough  and  was  on  the 
island  that  separated  it  from  the  river  when 
he  saw  the  light  flash  up  in  the  shanty-boat 
window.  He  slipped  in  among  the  island 
willows  and  crouched  there,  listening,  but 
he  heard  nothing  for  he  was  too  distant  from 
the  boat  to  hear  what  went  on  inside,  and 
he  pushed  deeper  into  the  willows  and  sat 
there  shivering  and  waiting. 

It  was  an  hour  later,  perhaps,  when  he 
heard  Booge's  voice  boom  out,  deep  and 
cheerful,  repeating  one  song  until  his  words 
died  away  in  the  distance : 

Go  tell  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 

Go  tell  the  little  baby  we  won't  be  back  to-day ; 

Go  tell  the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby, 

Go  tell  the  little  baby  they  're  takin'  Booge  away. 

"Come  now,  Buddy/'  said  Peter,  "we  can 
go  back  to  the  boat.     Uncle  Booge  says  there 
ain't  nobody  there  now/' 
194 


XIII 
AUNT  JANE 

TETER  approached  the  shanty-boat  cau- 
tiously but  there  was  no  sign  of  dan- 
ger. Indeed,  finding  Buddy  gone,  the  five 
men  who  had  come  to  the  boat  were  quite 
satisfied  to  get  Booge.  Four  were  but  little 
interested  in  helping  Briggles  pick  up  a  small 
boy,  and  nobody  wanted  Peter,  but  Booge, 
being  a  tramp  and  having  assaulted  a  bearer 
of  a  court  order,  was  a  desirable  capture. 
Booge,  when  he  felt  reasonably  sure  Peter 
had  reached  safety,  ended  his  half-joking 
parley  abruptly,  and  said  he  was  willing  to  ac- 
company his  captors  in  peace.  He  was  satis- 
fied he  would  not  be  given  much  more  than 
six  months  in  the  county  jail  for  the  assault, 
and  six  months  would  carry  him  through  the 
195 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

winter,  into  good,  warm,  summer  weather. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  a  struggle 
against  five  men  except  more  trouble. 

Once  more  in  his  cabin,  Peter  put  Buddy  to 
bed  in  the  dark,  and  ate  his  much  delayed 
supper.  Buddy  seemed  to  take  the  flight  as 
a  matter  of  no  moment.  Flights,  he  probably 
thought,  were  a  part  of  every  small  boy's  life, 
and  he  dropped  asleep  the  moment  he  was 
tucked  in  the  bunk.  Peter,  however,  did  not 
sleep.  He  had  much  to  think  over.  When 
an  hour  had  elapsed  he  lighted  his  lamp, 
knowing  it  could  not  be  seen  from  any  dis- 
tance, and  set  to  work  preparing  to  leave  the 
boat  forever.  He  had  few  portable  belong- 
ings worth  carrying  away.  What  food  was 
left  he  made  into  a  parcel.  He  cut,  with  his 
jack-knife,  strips  from  one  of  his  blankets  to 
wind  about  his  legs,  and  sliced  off  other  pieces 
in  which  to  tie  his  feet,  for  his  shoes  were 
thin  and  worn  through  in  places.  He  cut  a 
hole  in  the  center  of  what  was  left  of  the 
196 


AUNT  JANE 

blanket,  making  a  scrape  of  it  for  Buddy. 
Later  he  cut  a  similar  hole  in  the  other 
blanket  for  himself.  All  Buddy's  toys  he 
stored  away  under  the  bunk,  with  his  shot- 
gun. Then  he  baked  a  corn  cake  and  stowed 
pieces  of  it  in  his  pockets.  He  was  ready  for 
his  flight.  His  sister  Jane  should  afford  a 
refuge  for  him  and  the  boy. 

Long  before  sunrise  he  awakened  Buddy 
and  fed  him,  ate  his  own  breakfast,  tied  his 
feet  in  the  pieces  of  blanket  and  left  the 
shanty-boat.  They  were  two  strange  looking 
objects  as  Peter  worked  his  way  down  the 
slough,  taking  care  to  avoid  the  snow  patches 
and  keeping  to  that  part  of  the  ice  blown  clear 
by  the  wind.  Peter  had  dressed  Buddy  and 
himself  for  comfort  and  not  for  show.  The 
blue  scrape  enveloped  Buddy  and  hung  below 
his  feet  as  Peter  carried  him,  and  both  Peter 
and  Buddy  had  strips  of  blanket  tied  over 
their  heads  to  protect  their  ears.  Peter,  in 
his  own  gray  blanket,  tied  about  the  waist 
197 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

with  seine  twine,  looked  like  an  untidy  friar, 
his  feet  huge  gray  paws. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  shanty-boat 
Peter  turned  and  crossed  the  island,  and,  issu- 
ing on  the  other  side,  the  whole  broad  river 
lay  before  him.  It  was  still  dark  as  he  began 
his  long  tramp  across  the  river,  and  on  the 
vast  field  of  ice  it  was  frigidly  cold.  There 
the  wind  had  a  clearer  sweep  than  in  the 
protected  slough,  and  one  could  understand 
why  Peter  had  risked  the  return  to  the  boat 
for  additional  garments  after  having  once 
fled  from  it.  The  wind  carried  the  snow  in 
low  white  clouds,  lifting  it  from  one  drift  to 
deposit  it  in  another,  piling  it  high  against 
every  obstruction  on  the  ice.  Without  their 
blanket  serapes  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  Peter,  hardened  as  he  was,  to  withstand 
the  cold  of  the  long  journey  he  had  planned. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  after  leaving  the 
island,  Peter  had  to  struggle  over  the  rough 
hummocks  that  had  been  drift  ice  until  the 
198 


AUNT  JANE 

river  closed,  but  beyond  that  tfie  going  was 
smoother.  In  places  the  ice  was  so  glassy 
that  he  could  not  walk,  but  had  to  slide  his 
feet  along  without  lifting  them.  The  wind 
cut  his  face  like  a  knife  and  the  blowing 
snow  gathered  on  his  eye  lashes,  and  Buddy 
grew  heavier  and  heavier  in  his  arms.  He 
could  have  carried  him  all  day  pickaback,  but 
he  did  not  dare  risk  that  mode  lest  he  slip  and 
fall  backward  on  the  little  fellow.  His  arms 
and  back  ached  with  the  strain,  but  still  he 
kept  on,  making  straight  across  the  river, 
and  not  until  he  had  passed  the  middle  did  he 
set  Buddy  down.  Then,  believing  he  was 
beyond  the  jurisdiction  of  an  Iowa  court 
order,  he  rested,  sitting  flat  on  the  ice  with 
Buddy  in  his  lap. 

"I  can  walk,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  Buddy. 

"Uncle  Peter  will  carry  you  awhile  yet, 
Buddy,"  said  Peter.     "By  and  by,  when  he 
gets  tired  again  he  '11  let  you  walk.     Uncle 
Peter  is  in  a  hurry  now." 
199 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

He  lifted  the  boy  again  and  plodded  on, 
and  when  he  reached  the  roughly  wooded 
Illinois  shore  he  pushed  in  among  the  grape- 
vine festooned  trees  until  he  was  well  hidden 
from  the  river.  There  he  made  a  fire  and 
rested  until  he  and  Buddy  were  warmed 
through.  Then  out  upon  the  river  again 
and,  keeping  close  to  the  bank,  up  stream. 
Here  he  was  sheltered  from  the  cutting 
wind,  and  the  walking  was  surer,  for  the 
sand  had  blown  upon  the  ice  in  many  places, 
but  his  progress  was  slow  for  all  that.  About 
noon  he  halted  again  and  made  a  fire  and 
ate,  and  then  went  on.  Toward  four  o'clock, 
coming  abreast  of  a  tall,  lightning  scarred 
sycamore,  Peter  plunged  into  the  brush  until 
he  came  to  a  clearing  on  the  edge  of  a  small 
slough.  Here  stood  an  old  log  cattle  shed, 
and  here,  with  a  fire  burning  on  the  dirt 
floor,  they  spent  the  night,  Buddy  huddled 
in  Peter's  arms,  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
200 


AUNT  JANE 

They  had  covered  half  the  distance  to  River- 
bank. 

"Where  are  we  going  now,  Uncle  Peter  ?" 
asked  Buddy  the  next  morning. 

"I  guess  we  won't  go  nowhere  to-day," 
said  Peter.  "We  ain't  likely  to  be  bothered 
here,  this  time  of  the  year,  so  we  '11  just 
make  a  good  fire  and  stay  right  here  and  be 
comfortable,  and  to-night  we  're  going  to 
start  over  across  to  your  Aunt  Jane's  house." 

"Is  Aunt  Jane's  house  like  this  house?" 
asked  Buddy. 

"Well,  it 's  quite  considerable  better,"  said 
Peter.  "You  '11  see  what  it 's  like  when  you 
get  to  it.  If  everything  turns  out  the  way  I 
hope  it  will,  you  and  me  will  live  at  Aunt 
Jane's  quite  some  time." 

Not  until  well  toward  nine  o'clock  did 
Peter  awaken  Buddy  that  night.  He  was 
haunted  by  the  fear  that,  once  he  touched 
Iowa  soil,  every  eye  would  be  watching  for 
him  and  every  hand  eager  to  tear  Buddy 
201 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

from  him.  If,  however,  he  could  get  Buddy 
safely  into  Jane's  care  Peter  believed  he  could 
make  a  fight  against  Briggles  or  any  other 
man,  for  Jane's  house  was  a  home — there 
was  a  woman  in  it — Peter  meant  to  time  his 
trip  to  reach  Jane's  in  the  early  morning. 

The  moon  was  full  and  bright,  glaring 
bright  on  the  river,  as  Peter  started,  and  the 
cold  was  benumbing. 

The  long,  diagonal  course  across  the  river 
brought  Peter  and  Buddy  to  the  Iowa  shore 
some  three  miles  below  Riverbank,  just  be- 
fore sunrise.  On  shore  new  difficulties  met 
him.  A  road  ran  along  the  shore,  but  Peter's 
destination  lay  straight  back  in  the  hills,  and 
two  miles  of  sandy  farm  land,  in  frozen  fur- 
rows, crossed  by  many  barbed  wire  fences, 
lay  between  Peter  and  the  foot  of  the  hills. 
The  sun  came  up  while  he  was  still  struggling 
across  the  plowed  land,  and  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  road  that  led  up  the  hillside  it 
was  glaring  day.  Twice  early  farmers, 
202 


AUNT  JANE 

bound  to  town,  passed  him  as  he  trudged 
along  the  winding  road,  staring  at  him  curi- 
ously, and  Peter  dropped  to  the  creek  bed 
that  followed  the  road.  Here  he  could  hide 
if  he  heard  an  approaching  team.  Just  be- 
low his  sister's  house  the  road  crossed  the 
creek  and  here  Peter  climbed  the  bank  A 
wind  had  risen  with  the  sun  and  Peter's 
blanket  flapped  against  his  legs.  At  his 
sister's  gate  he  paused  behind  a  mass  of  leaf- 
less elderberry  bushes,  and  deposited  Buddy 
on  the  low  bank  that  edged  the  road. 

"Now,  you  stay  right  here,  Buddy,"  said 
Peter  to  the  boy,  "and  just  sort  of  look  at 
the  landscape  over  there  whilst  I  run  up  and 
tell  your  Aunt  Jane  you  're  coming.  She 
don't  like  to  be  surprised." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  look  at  the  landscape, 
Uncle  Peter,"  Buddy  complained.  "I  want 
to  go  with  you." 

"It  ain't  much  of  a  landscape,  and  that  's 
a  fact,"  said  Peter,  glancing  at  the  bare  clay 
203 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

bank  across  the  creek,  "and  if  it  was  n't  very 
important  that  I  should  speak  to  your  Aunt 
Jane  first  I  would  n't  ask  you  to  wait  here. 
I  know  just  how  a  boy  feels  about  waiting. 
My  goodness!  Did  I  see  a  squirrel  over 
there?  A  little  gray  squirrel  with  a  big 
bushy  tail?" 

"No,"  said  Buddy. 

"Well,  you  just  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  that 
clay  bank,  and  maybe  you  will.  Maybe 
you  '11  see  a  little  jumpy  rabbit." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  a  rabbit.  I  want  to 
go  with  you,"  said  Buddy. 

Peter  looked  at  the  house.  It  was  hardly 
more  than  a  weather-beaten  shanty.  Its 
fence,  once  an  army  of  white  pickets,  was 
now  but  a  tumble-down  affair  of  rotting 
posts  and  stringers  with  a  loose  picket  here 
and  there,  and  the  door  yard  was  cluttered 
with  tin  cans  and  wood  ashes.  The  wood- 
shed, as  free  from  paint  as  the  house,  was 
well  filled  with  stove  wood,  for  Peter  had 
204 


AUNT  JANE 

filled  it  in  the  early  fall.  Beyond  the  wood- 
shed the  garden — Peter  worked  it  for  his 
sister  each  spring — was  indicated  by  the 
rows  of  cabbage  stalks  with  their  few  frozen 
leaves  still  clinging  to  them.  The  whole 
place  was  run  down  and  slip-shod,  but  it  was 
a  house,  and  it  held  a  woman. 

"Goodness  me!"  said  Peter.  "Of  course 
you  don't  want  to  look  for  rabbits !  I  've  got 
that  jack-knife  I  bought  for  you  right  here 
in  my  pocket,  and  now  I  guess  you  'II  want 
to  wait  here  for  Uncle  Peter!  You  will  if 
Uncle  Peter  opens  the  big  blade  and  gets 
you  a  stick  to  whittle." 

"I  want  to  whittle,"  said  Buddy  promptly. 
"I  want  to  whittle  a  funny  cat." 

Peter  looked  about  for  a  stick. 

"There!"  he  said.  "There's  a  stick,  but 
if  I  was  you  I  'd  make  a  funny  snake  out  of 
it.  That  stick  don't  look  like  it  would  make 
a  cat.  You  make  a  snake,  and  if  it  don't  turn 
out  to  be  a  snake,  maybe  it  '11  be  a  sword. 
205 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Now,  you  stay  right  here,  and  Uncle  Peter 
won't  be  gone  very  long.  I  'm  going  to  put 
you  right  back  in  among  these  bushes,  and 
don't  you  move/' 

"I  won't,"  said  Buddy. 

When  Peter  left  the  shanty-boat  he  had 
felt  that  he  could  walk  up  to  Jane  with  the 
front  of  a  lion  and  demand  shelter  for  him- 
self and  for  Buddy  all  the  advantages  of  a 
home.  From  that  distance  it  had  seemed 
quite  reasonable,  for  he  owned  the  house  and 
the  small  plot  of  ground  on  which  it  stood. 
Ownership  ought  to  give  some  rights,  and  he 
had  planned  just  what  he  would  say.  He 
would  tell  Jane  he  had  come.  Then  he  would 
tell  her  he  had  reformed,  and  how  he  had  re- 
formed, and  that  he  was  a  changed  man  and 
was  going  to  work  hard  and  make  things 
comfortable  for  her,  and  give  up  shanty- 
boating  and  the  river  and  all  the  things  he 
had  loved.  He  would  say  he  now  saw  all 
these  were  bad  for  his  character.  Then, 
206 


8 

O 


i  ^ 


•i 


AUNT  JANE 

when  she  got  used  to  that,  he  would  inciden- 
tally mention  Buddy,  and  tell  her  what  a  nice 
little  fellow  he  was,  and  what  a  steadying 
effect  the  boy  would  have  on  his  shiftless  life. 
Then  he  would  get  Buddy,  and  his  sister 
would  see  what  a  fine  boy  Buddy  was,  and 
wrap  her  arms  around  him,  and  weep.  Peter 
was  sure  she  would  weep.  And  there  would 
be  a  home  for  Buddy  with  a  woman  in  it ! 

But  if  Jane  objected — as  she  might — Peter 
meant  to  set  his  foot  down  hard.  It  was 
his  house  and  he  could  do  what  he  wished 
with  it.  That  he  had  allowed  Jane  to  possess 
it  in  single  peace  was  well  enough,  but  it  was 
his  house.  That  would  bring  her  to  time — it 

The  nearer  he  had  approached  the  house, 
however,  the  more  doubtful  he  had  become 
that  Jane  would  welcome  him  and  that  she 
would,  after  a  little  talk,  order  him  to  bring 
Buddy  in.  The  closer  he  came  to  Jane  the 
better  he  recalled  the  many  times  he  had  fled 
207 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

precipitately  after  doing  her  chores,  and  his 
many  moist  and  mournful  receptions. 

Now  he  walked  to  the  kitchen  door  and 
knocked,  and  Jane's  voice  bade  him  enter. 
He  took  off  his  hat  as  he  entered.  His 
sister  was  sitting  at  the  kitchen  table  where, 
despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  she  had 
evidently  just  finished  her  breakfast.  As 
she  turned  her  head  all  Peter's  optimism  fled, 
for  Jane's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping. 
When  her  sorrows  pressed  heavily  upon 
Jane  she  was  a  very  fountain  of  tears.  She 
threw  up  her  hands  as  she  saw  Peter. 

"Oh,  mercy  me,  Peter  Lane !"  she  cried  in 
a  heart-broken  voice.  "Look  what  you've 
come  to  at  your  time  of  life.  Nothing  to 
wear  but  old  rags  and  horse  blankets  on  back 
and  foot!  It  does  seem  as  if  nothing  ever 
went  right  for  you  since  the  day  you  were 
born.  Just  poverty  and  bad-health  and 
trouble,  and  one  thing  after  another."  She 
wiped  her  eyes  to  make  room  in  them  for 
308 


AUNT  JANE 

fresh  tears.  "Every  time  I  think  of  you, 
freezing  to  death  in  that  shanty-boat,  and 
going  hungry  and  cold,  I — it  makes  me  so 
miserable — it  makes  me  feel  so  bad — " 

"Now,  Jane/'  said  Peter  uncomfortably, 
"don't  cry !  Don't  do  it !  It  ain't  so  bad  as 
all  that.  Every  time  I  come  to  see  you,  you 
just  cry  and  carry  on,  and  I  tell  you  I  don't 
need  it  done  for  me.  I  'm  all  right.  I  get 
along  somehow." 

"Never,  never  once,  have  I  said  an  un- 
kind word  to  you,  Peter,"  said  Jane  damply. 
"You  should  n't  upbraid  me  with  it,  for  I 
know  it  ain't  your  fault  you  turned  out  this 
way.  I  know  you  ain't  got  the  health  to  go 
to  work  and  earn  a  living,  if  you  wanted  to. 
I  do  what  I  can  to  keep  your  house  from 
falling  down  on  my  head.  When  I  think 
what  would  become  of  this  house  if  you 
did  n't  have  me  to  do  what  I  can  to  mend  it 
up — the  roof 's  leakin'  worse  than  ever." 

"As  soon  as  spring  comes,  I  'm  going  to 
209 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

get  some  shingles  and  shingle  up  the  leaky 
places/'  said  Peter.  "Maybe  I  '11  put  a  whole 
new  roof  on.  Now,  just  listen  to  what  I 
want  to  say,  please,  Jane." 

"It's  that  makes  me  feel  so  awful  bad, 
Peter,"  said  Jane,  shaking  her  head.  "You 
mean  so  well,  and  you  promise  so  much,  and 
you  see  things  so  big,  and  yet  you  ain't  got 
money  to  buy  shoes  nor  clothes  nor  anything, 
and  for  all  I  know  you  might  be  lying  sick 
without  a  bite  to  eat,  and  me  having  all  I  can 
do  to  hold  body  and  soul  together  in  a  house 
like  this.  Time  and  again  I  've  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  and  leave  it,  and  I  would  if  it 
was  n't  for  you.  I  feel  my  duty  by  you,  and 
I  stay,  but  work  in  a  house  like  this  wears  me 
to  the  bone.  It  does.  To  the  bone !" 

It  may  have  worn  some  one  to  the  bone  but 
not  Jane.  She  was  one  of  those  huge,  flabby 
women  who  are  naturally  lazy;  who  sit 
thinking  of  the  work  they  have  to  do  but  do 
not  do  it;  and  who  linger  long  over  their 
210 


AUNT  JANE 

meals  and  weep  into  them.  To  Peter  her 
tears  were  worse  than  Mrs.  Potter's  sharp 
tongue,  for  Mrs.  Potter's  reproaches  were 
single  of  motive,  while  Jane's  tears  were  too 
apt  to  be  a  mask  for  reproaches  more  cutting 
than  Mrs.  Potter's  out  and  out  hard  words. 
Jane  did  not  weep  continually;  she  had  the 
knack  of  weeping  when  tears  would  serve 
her  purpose. 

From  time  to  time,  as  the  spirit  moved  her, 
Jane  went  to  town  and  did  plain  sewing.  She 
had  had  a  husband  (but  had  one  no  more) 
and  he  had  left  her  a  little  money  which  she 
had  kept  in  the  bank,  drawing  four  per  cent, 
regularly.  It  did  not  amount  to  much,  only 
a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  a  year,  but  this 
she  used  most  sparingly,  leaving  the  greater 
part  of  the  interest  to  accumulate.  Perhaps 
she  was  sincere  in  her  mourning  for  Peter, 
but  she  certainly  did  not  want  him  in  the 
house.  As  a  provider  Peter  had  never  been  a 
success — he  was  too  liberal — and  in  his 
211 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

periods  of  financial  stringency  he  had  been 
known  to  ask  Jane  for  money.     Not  that  he 

*  ever  got  it,  but  it  was  a  thing  to  be  guarded 
against.     Jane  guarded  against  it  with  tears. 
In  fifteen  minutes  of  tearful  reproaches  she 
could  make  Peter  feel  that  he  was  the  most 
worthless  and  cruel  of  men.     She  had  so 
often  reduced  him  to  that  state  that  he  had 
come  to  fall  into  it  naturally  whenever  he 
saw  Jane,  and  he  was  usually  only  too  glad 
to  escape  from  her  presence  again  and  go 
back  to  the  river  life.     Tears  proclaim  in- 
justice, and  a  man  like  Peter,  seeing  them, 
falls  easily  into  the  belief  that  he  must  be 
in  the  wrong,  and  very  badly  in  the  wrong. 
In  flying  from  Jane  he  fled  from  the  self- 
incrimination  she  planted  in  him.     Now  he 
sighed  and  took  a  seat  on  one  of  the  kitchen 

*  chairs. 

"Jane/5  he  said,  "this  house  is  my  house, 
aintit?" 

"You  know  it  is,  Peter/'  she  said  reproach- 
212 


AUNT  JANE 

fully.  "No  need  to  remind  me  of  that,  nor 
that  I  ain't  any  better  than  a  pauper.  If  I 
was,  it  would  be  far  from  me  to  stay  here 
trying  to  hold  the  old  boards  together  for 
you.  Many  and  many  a  time  I  wish  you  had 
health  to  live  in  this  house,  so  I  could  go 
somewhere  and  live  like  a  human  being,  and 
let  you  take  care  of  this  cow-pen — for  it  ain't 
no  better  than  that — yourself.  It  would  be 
a  blessed  thing  for  me,  Peter,  if  you  ever  got 
your  health.  I  could  go  then." 

Peter  moved  uneasily,  and  frowned  at  the 
fresh  tears. 

"I  wisht  you  would  n't  cry,  Jane/'  he  said. 
"I  want  to  talk  sort  of  business  to  you  this 
morning."  He  paused,  appalled  by  the  effect 
his  revelation  would  be  apt  to  have  on  Jane. 
It  must  be  made,  however,  and  he  plunged 
into  it.  "I  've  got  a  boy.  I  've  got  a  little 
feller  about  three  years  old  that  come  to  me 
one  night  when  his  ma  died,  and  he  ain't  got 
anybody  in  the  world  but  me,  Jane,  to  take 
213 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

care  of  him.  I  Ve  had  him  some  months, 
down  at  my  boat,  and  he  's  the  cutest,  nicest 
little  tyke  you  ever  set  eyes  on.  Why,  he  's — 
he  's  no  more  trouble  'round  a  place  than 
a  little  kitten  or  a  pup  or  something  like  that. 
You  'd  be  just  tickled  to  death  with  him.  My 
first  notion,"  he  said  more  slowly,  "my  first 
idee  was  to  have  him  and  me  come  here,  so 
you  could  be  a  sort  of  ma  to  him,  and  I  could 
be  a  sort  of  pa,  so  we  'd  make  a  sort  of  family, 
like.  What  he  's  got  to  have  is  a  good  home, 
first  of  all,  and  a  shanty-boat  ain't  that.  I 
see  that.  But  I  can  see  how  easy-going  I 
am,  and  how  I  might  be  an  expense  to  you, 
for  awhile  anyway,  so  I  thought,  maybe,  if 
you  would  take  the  boy  in — now  wait  a 
minute,  Jane !  Wait  a  minute !  You  're 
bound  to  hear  me  out." 

His  sister  had  forgotten  her  sorrows  in 

open-mouthed  amazement  as  Peter  talked, 

but  as  the  startling  proposal  became  clear 

she  dabbled  at  her  eyes,  and  sniffled.    Peter 

214 


AUNT  JANE 

knew  what  was  coming — a  new  torrent  of 
tears,  an  avalanche  of  sorrow. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  shut  up  for  a  minute 
'til  I  get  through !"  he  cried  in  exasperation. 
"You  ain't  done  nothing  but  weep  over  me 
since  I  was  knee  high.  Give  me  a  rest  for 
one  time.  I  don't  need  weeping  over.  I  'm 
all  right  Ain't  I  just  said  I  '11  go  away 
again  ?" 

"You  never  understand  me,"  wept  Jane. 

"Yes,  I  do,  too!"  said  Peter  angrily.  "I 
understand  you  good.  All  you  want  is  to 
weep  me  out  of  house  and  home,  and  I  know 
it.  I  'm  a  sort  of  old  bum,  and  I  know  that, 
too,  but  I  've  been  fair  to  you  right  along, 
and  all  I  get  for  it  is  to  be  wept  over,  and 
I  'm  sick  of  it.  You  ain't  a  sister,  you  're  a 
— a  fountain.  You  're  an  everlasting  foun- 
tain. You  let  me  come  up  and  saw  your 
wood,  and  you  weep;  and  you  let  me  make 
your  garden,  and  you  weep,  and  if  you  do 
give  me  a  meal  while  I  'm  working  for  you 
215 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

it 's  so  wept  into  that  my  mouth  tastes  of 
salt  for  a  week.  I  've  put  up  with  it  just 
as  long  as  I  'm  going  to." 

"I  '11  go,"  said  Jane,  sniveling.  "I  '11  go. 
I  never  thought  to  get  such  unkind  words 
from  my  brother !" 

"Brother  nothing !"  said  Peter,  thoroughly 
exasperated.  "What  did  you  ever  give  me 
but  shoves,  wrapped  up  in  sorrow  and  grief? 
What  did  you  ever  do  but  jump  on  me,  and 
tear  me  to  pieces,  and  pull  me  apart  to  show 
me  how  worthless  I  was,  whilst  you  let  on 
you  was  mourning  over  me  ?  I  guess  I  Ve 
had  it  done  to  me  long  enough  to  see  through 
it,  Jane,  so  you  may  as  well  shut  off  the  bawl- 
ing. You  ain't  no  sister — you  're  a  miser !" 

"Peter  Lane!" 

"That 's  what  you  are,  a  miser !"  said 
Peter,  rising  from  his  chair.  "You  're  a 
weeping  miser,  and  you  might  as  well  know 
it.  That  's  why  you  don't  want  me  'round, 
you  're  afraid  I  might  cost  you  a  nickel  some- 
216 


AUNT  JANE 

time.  For  two  cents  I  'd  put  you  out  of  the 
house.  You  'd  bawl  some  if  you  had  to  pay 
rent." 

Peter  should  have  felt  a  sense  of  shame, 
but  he  did  not.  In  some  inexplicable  way  a 
huge  weight  seemed  lifted  from  his  chest. 
He  felt  big,  and  strong,  and  efficient.  It  was 
a  wonderful  thing  he  had  discovered.  He, 
who  had  for  so  many  years,  cringed  before 
his  sister's  cruelty  was  making  her  wince. 
He,  Peter  Lane,  was  not  feeling  worthless 
and  mean.  He  was  talking  out  as  other  men 
do.  He  was  having  a  rage,  and  yet  he  was 
so  self-controlled  that  he  knew  he  could  stop 
at  any  moment.  He  was  not  the  tool  of  his 
anger,  the  anger  was  his  instrument.  His 
pale  eyes  blazed,  but  he  ended  with  a  scornful 
laugh. 

Jane  did  not  flare  up.  She  dropped  her 
head  on  her  table  and  cried  again,  but  with 
real  self-pity  this  time. 

"Now,  it  ain't  worth  while  to  cry,"  said 
217 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter  coldly.  "I  've  said  all  I  Ve  got  to  say 
on  that  subject.  All  I  Ve  got  now  is  a  busi- 
ness proposition,  and  you  can  take  it  or  not. 
If  you  want  to  take  Buddy  in  and  feed  him 
and  sleep  him  and  treat  him  white,  the  way  het 
deserves,  I  '11  pay  you  for  it  just  as  soon  as  I 
earn  some  money,  and  I  'm  going  to  get 
work  right  away.  If  you  won't  do  that  you 
can  take  the  house  and  have  it,  and  I  'm 
through  with  you." 

He  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  waiting. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Jane  was  waiting  too 
long,  that  she  was  calculating  the  chances  of 
getting  her  pay  if  she  took  the  boy,  and  Peter 
knew  his  past  record  did  not  suggest  any 
very  strong  probability  of  that. 

"You  '11  get  your  money,"  he  said.  "I'm 
going  to  look  for  a  job  as  soon  as  I  go  out 
from  here.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  that 
You  won't  lose  anything." 

Her  reply  came  so  suddenly  that  it  startled 
218 


AUNT  JANE 

Peter.  She  jumped  from  her  chair  and 
stamped  her  foot  angrily. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  clinching  her  fists,  while 
all  her  anger  blazed  in  her  face.  "Hain't 
you  insulted  me  enough?  Get  out  of  my 
house !  Don't  you  ever  come  back !" 

Peter  put  on  his  hat.  He  paused  when  his 
hand  was  on  the  door-knob,  his  face  deathly 
white. 

"If  you  ever  get  sick,  Jane/'  he  said,  "you 
can  leave  word  at  George  Rapp's  Livery 
stable.  I  '11  come  to  you  if  you  are  sick,"  and 
he  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly. 

Buddy  was  waiting  where  Peter  had  left 
him. 

"I  'm  making  a  funny  snake  for  you,  Uncle 
Peter,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I   should  think  you  were!"  said 

Peter,     summoning    all    his    cheerfulness. 

"That's  just  the  funniest  old  snake  I  ever 

did  see,  but  you  better  let  Uncle  Peter  have 

219 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

your  jack-knife  now,  Buddy.  We  '11  get 
along." 

He  gathered  the  boy,  who  obediently 
yielded  the  knife,  into  his  arms. 

"I  'm  going  to  see  Aunt  Jane,  now/'  said 
the  boy  contentedly. 

"No,  I  guess  we  won't  go  see  your  Aunt 
Jane  to-day,  Buddy,"  said  Peter,  holding 
the  boy  close.  "Put  your  head  close  up 
against  Uncle  Peter's  shoulder  and  he  can 
carry  you  better.  You  ain't  so  heavy  that 
way." 

Buddy  put  his  head  on  Peter's  shoulder 
and  crooned  one  of  Booge's  verses  con- 
tentedly. They  walked  a  long  way  in  this 
manner,  toward  the  town.  From  time  to  time 
Peter  shifted  the  boy  from  one  shoulder  to 
the  other,  and  once  or  twice  he  allowed  him 
to  walk,  but  not  far.  He  wanted  to  feel 
Buddy  in  his  arms. 

"I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  Peter  as  they 
entered  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  "if  I  had  to 

220 


AUNT  JANE 

go  on  a  trip  right  soon.  I  can't  seem  to  think 
of  any  way  out  of  it." 

"I  like  to  go  on  trips  with  you,  Uncle 
Peter/'  said  Buddy. 

"Well,  you  see,  Buddy-boy,"  said  Peter, 
"this  here  trip  I  can't  take  you  on,  so  I  've 
got  to  leave  you  with  a  man — a  man  that 
looks  a  good  deal  like  that  kazoozer  man, 
but  you  must  n't  be  afraid  of  him,  because 
all  he  is  going  to  do  is  to  take  you  for  a  ride 
in  a  horse  and  buggy  out  to  where  you  '11  stay. 
It  may  be  some  time  before  I  see  you  again, 
but  I  want  you  should  remember  me.  I 
guess  you  will,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter." 

"That 's  right !  You  just  remember  Uncle 
Peter  every  day,  but  don't  you  worry  for  him, 
and  some  day  maybe  I  '11  come  and  get  you. 
I  've  got  a  lot  of  work  to  do  first  that  you 
would  n't  understand,  such  as  building  up  a 
new  man  from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  his 
head,  but  I  '11  get  it  done  some  time,  and 
221 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

I  '11  come  for  you  the  first  thing  after  I  do. 
You  want  I  should,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Buddy. 

For  the  rest  of  the  way  to  town  Peter  held 
the  boy  very  close  in  his  arms,  and  did  not 
think  of  his  tired  muscles  at  all.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  perfidy  to  the  trusting  child, 
for  he  was  without  money  and  without  it  he 
could  see  nothing  to  do  but  deliver  the  boy 
to  Briggles  and  the  Unknown. 


222 


XIV 
A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

THE  Marcy's  Run  Road,  on  which 
Peter's  sister  lived,  led  into  River- 
bank  past  the  cemetery,  and  near  the  cem- 
etery stood  a  group  of  small  stores.  One  of 
these,  half  grocery  and  half  saloon,  was  even 
more  unkempt  than  the  others,  but  before  its 
window  Peter  stopped.  A  few  small  coins — 
the  residue  after  his  purchasing  trip  of  the 
day  before — remained  in  his  pocket,  and  in 
the  window  was  a  square  of  cardboard  an- 
nouncing "Hot  Beef  Soup  To-day." 

Hot  beef  soup,  when  a  man  has  tramped 
many  miles  carrying  a  heavy  child,  is  a  temp- 
tation. Buddy  himself  would  be  glad  of  a 
bowl  of  hot  soup,  and  Peter  opened  the  door 
and  entered. 

223 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

The  store  was  narrow  and  dark.  A  few 
feet,  just  inside  the  door,  were  occupied  by 
the  scanty  stock  of  groceries,  tobacco  and 
cheap  candy,  and  back  of  this  was  the  bar, 
with  two  small  tables  in  the  space  before  it. 
The  whole  place  was  miserably  dirty.  It 
was  no  gilded  liquor  palace,  with  mirrors 
and  glittering  cash-registers.  The  bar  was 
of  plain  pine,  painted  "barn-red,"  and  the 
whole  arrangement  was  primitive  and  cheap. 
Beyond  the  bar  room  a  partition  cut  off 
the  living  room,  and  this  completed  "Mrs. 
Crink's  Place." 

Mrs.  Crink  had  a  bad  reputation.  During 
the  stringent  prohibition  days  she  had  run 
a  "speak-easy"  without  paying  the  town  the 
usual  monthly  disorderly  house  fine,  and  had 
served  her  term  in  jail.  After  that  she  was 
strongly  suspected  of  boot-legging  whisky, 
and  she  had  purchased  this  new  place  but  a 
few  days  since.  She  was  a  thin,  sour-faced, 
angular  woman,  ugly  alike  in  face  and 
224 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

temper.  When  Peter  opened  the  door  a  bell 
sounded  sharply,  but  the  high  voice  of  Mrs. 
Crink  in  the  living  room  drowned  the  bell. 
She  was  scolding  and  reviling  at  the  top  of 
her  voice — swearing  like  a  man — and  a 
child  was  sobbing  and  pleading.  Peter  heard 
the  sharp  slap  of  a  hand  against  a  face,  and 
a  cry  from  the  child,  and  Mrs.  Crink  came 
into  the  bar  room,  her  eyes  glaring  and  her 
face  dark  with  anger. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  she  snarled. 

"I  'd  like  to  get  two  bowls  of  soup  for  me 
and  the  boy,  if  it  ain't  too  much  trouble/' 
said  Peter. 

"Everything 's  trouble,"  whined  Mrs. 
Crink.  "I  don't  expect  nothing  else.  A 
woman  can't  make  a  living  without  these 
cranks  tellin'  her  what  she  shall  and  what 
she  shan't.  Shut  up  that  howlin',  you  little 
devil,  or  I  '11  come  in  there  and  bat  your  head 
off." 

She  went  into  the  living  room  and  brought 
225 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

out  the  two  bowls  of  soup,  placing  them  on 
one  of  the  small  tables.  Peter  lifted  Buddy 
into  a  chair.  Mrs.  Crink  began  wiping  off 
the  beer-wet  bar. 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  let  me  have  about 
a  dime's  worth  of  crackers  and  cheese  ?"  he 
asked,  and  Mrs.  Crink  dropped  the  dirty  rag 
with  which  she  was  wiping  the  bar. 

"Come  out  here,  and  shut  up  your  bawlin', 
and  swab  off  this  bar/3  she  yelled,  and  the 
door  of  the  back  room  opened  and  a  girl  came 
out.  She  was  the  merest  child.  She  came 
hesitatingly,  holding  her  arm  before  her  face, 
and  the  old  hag  of  a  woman  jerked  up  the 
filthy,  wet  rag  and  slapped  her  across  the 
face.  It  was  none  of  Peter's  business,  but 
he  half  arose  from  his  chair  and  then  dropped 
back  again.  It  made  his  blood  boil,  but  he 
had  not  associated  with  shanty-boat  men  and 
women  without  learning  that  in  the  coarser 
strata  of  humanity  slaps  and  blows  and  ugly 
words  are  often  the  common  portion  of 
226 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

children.  He  would  have  liked  to  interfere, 
but  he  knew  the  inefficiency  of  any  effort  he 
might  make,  and  like  a  shock  it  came  to  him 
that  it  was  for  things  like  this  that  Briggles 
rescued, — or  pretended  to  rescue — little 
children.  It  was  not  so  bad  then,  after  all. 
If  he  must  give  up  Buddy  there  would  be 
some  compensation  in  telling  Briggles  of  this 
poor  child,  who  deserved  far  more  the  atten- 
tion of  his  Society.  All  this  passed  through 
his  mind  in  an  instant,  but  before  he  could 
turn  back  to  his  bowl  of  soup  Buddy  uttered 
a  cry  of  joy  and,  scrambling  from  his  chair, 
ran  across  the  floor  toward  the  weeping 
girl. 

"Oh !  Susie !  Susie !  My  Susie !"  he  shouted 
and  threw  himself  upon  her. 

The  impetus  of  his  coming  almost  threw 
the  child  off  her  feet,  and  she  staggered  back, 
but  the  next  instant  she  had  clasped  her  arms 
around  the  boy,  and  was  hugging  him  in  a 
close,  youthful  embrace  of  joy. 
227 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"My  Buddy!  My  Buddy!"  she  kept  re- 
peating over  and  over,  as  if  all  other  words 
failed  her,  as  they  will  in  an  excess  of 
sudden  surprise.  "My  Buddy !  My  Buddy !" 

The  woman  stared  for  an  instant  in  open- 
mouthed  astonishment,  and  then  her  eyes 
flashed  with  anger.  She  reached  out  her 
hand  to  grasp  the  girl,  but  Peter  Lane  thrust 
it  aside. 

His  own  eyes  could  flash,  and  the  woman 
drew  back. 

"Now,  don't  you  do  that !"  he  said  hotly. 

"You  git  out  of  my  store,  then !"  shouted 
Mrs.  Crink.  "You  take  your  brat  and  git 
out!" 

"I  '11  get  out/'  said  Peter  slowly,  "as  soon 
as  I  am  quite  entirely  ready  to  do  so.  I  hope 
you  will  understand  that.  And  I  '11  be  ready 
when  I  have  ate  my  soup." 

The  woman  glared  at  him.  She  let  her 
hand  drop  behind  the  bar,  where  she  had  a 
piece  of  lead  pipe,  and  then,  suddenly,  she 
228 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

laughed  a  high,  cackling  laugh  to  cover  her 
defeat,  and  let  her  eyes  fall.  She  slouched  to 
the  front  of  the  shop  for  the  crackers  and 
cheese  and  Peter  seated  himself  again  at  the 
small  table,  and  looked  at  the  children. 

"Where  's  Mama?"  he  heard  the  girl  ask, 
and  Buddy's  reply:  "Mama  went  away," 
and  he  saw  the  look  of  wonder  on  the  girl's 
face. 

"Come  here,"  Peter  said,  and  the  girl  came 
to  the  table. 

"I  guess  you  're  Buddy's  sister  he  's  been 
tellin'  me  about,  ain't  you?"  said  Peter  kindly, 
"and  I  'm  his  Uncle  Peter  He  's  been  staying 
with  on  a  shanty-boat.  Your  ma" — he  hesi- 
tated and  looked  at  the  girl's  sweet,  clear 
eyes — "your  ma  went  away,  like  Buddy  said, 
Susie,  but  you  don't  want  to  think  she  run 
away  and  left  him,  for  that  would  n't  be  so, 
not  at  all !  She  had  to  go,  or  she  would  n't 
've  gone.  I  guess — I  guess  she  'd  've  come 
and  got  you.  Yes,  I  guess  that 's  what  she 
229 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

had  on  her  mind.  She  spoke  of  you  quite  a 
little  before  she  went  on  her  trip/' 

"I  want  you  should  take  me  away  from 
here,"  said  the  girl  suddenly. 

"Well,  now,  I  wish  I  could,  Susie/'  said 
Peter,  "but  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  Maybe 
I  can  arrange  it — "  He  poised  his  soup 
spoon  in  the  air.  "Did  Reverend  Mr.  Brig- 
gles  bring  you  here  ?" 

"Not  here,"  said  Susie.  "Mrs.  Crink 
did  n't  live  here,  then." 

"Well,  that's  all  the  same,"  said  Peter. 
"I  just  wanted  to  enquire  about  it.  You  'd 
better  eat  your  soup,  Buddy-boy.  Well,  now, 
let  me  see !" 

Peter  stared  into  the  soup,  as  if  it  might 
hold,  hidden  in  its  muggy  depths,  the  answer 
to  his  riddle. 

"Just  at  present  I  'm  sort  of  unable  to  do 

what  I  'd  like  to  do  myself,"  he  said.     "I  'd 

like  to  take  you  right  with  me,  but  I  've  got 

a  certain  friend  that  was  quite  put  out  be- 

230 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

cause  I  did  n't  bring  your  ma  to — to  see  her 
when  your  ma  stopped  in  at  my  boat,  and  I 
guess  maybe" — Mrs.  Crink  was  returning 
with  the  crackers  and  cheese,  and  Peter  ended 
hurriedly — "I  guess  maybe  you  better  stay 
here  until  I  make  arrangements/5 

It  was  a  strange  picture,  the  boy  eating 
his  soup  gluttonously,  Peter  Lane  in  his 
comedy  tramp  garb  of  blanket  and  blanket- 
strips,  and  the  little  girl  staring  at  him  with 
big,  trustful  eyes.  Mrs.  Crink  put  the  crack- 
ers and  cheese  on  the  table. 

"If  you  Ve  got  through  takin'  up  time  that 
don't  belong  to  you,  maybe  I  can  git  some 
work  out  of  this  brat/'  she  snapped. 

"Why,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Peter  politely. 
"It  only  so  happened  that  this  boy  was  her 
brother.  We  didn't  want  to  discommode 
you  at  all." 

Susie  turned  away  to  her  work  of  swabbing 
the  bar,  and  Peter  divided  the  crackers  and 
cheese  equally  between  himself  and  Buddy. 
231 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"I  don't  care  much  to  have  tramps  come 
in  here  anyway/'  said  Mrs.  Crink.  "I  never 
knew  one  yit  that  would  n't  pick  up  anything 
loose/'  but  Peter  made  no  reply.  He  had  a 
matter  of  tremendous  import  on  his  mind. 
He  felt  that  he  had  taken  the  weight  of  Su- 
sie's troubles  on  his  shoulders  in  addition  to 
those  of  Buddy,  and  he  had  resolved  to  ask 
Widow  Potter  to  take  the  two  children ! 

The  parting  of  the  two  children  had  for 
them  none  of  the  pathos  it  had  for  Peter. 
When  Buddy  had  eaten  the  last  scrap  of 
cracker  he  got  down  from  his  chair. 

"Good-by,  Susie/'  he  said. 

"Good-by,  Buddy/'  she  answered,  and  that 
was  all,  and  Peter  led  the  boy  out  of  the 
place. 

There  are,  in  Riverbank,  alleys  between 
each  two  of  the  streets  parallel  with  the  river, 
and  Peter,  now  that  he  had  once  more  re- 
solved not  to  allow  Briggles  to  have  Buddy, 
took  to  the  alleys  as  he  passed  through  the 
232^ 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

town.  The  outlandishness  of  his  garb  made 
him  the  more  noticeable,  he  knew,  and  he 
wished  to  avoid  being  seen.  He  traversed 
the  entire  town  thus,  even  where  a  creek 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  scramble  down 
one  bank  and  up  another,  until  the  alleys 
ended  at  the  far  side  of  the  town.  There  he 
crossed  the  vacant  lot  where  a  lumber  mill 
had  once  stood,  and  struck  into  the  river  road. 

The  boy  seemed  to  take  it  all  as  a  matter 
of  course,  but  Peter  kept  a  wary  eye  on 
the  road,  ready  to  seek  a  hiding-place  at  the 
approach  of  any  rig  that  looked  as  if  it 
might  contain  the  Reverend  Briggles,  but 
none  appeared.  A  farmer,  returning  from 
town  with  a  wagon,  stopped  at  a  word  from 
Peter,  and  allowed  him  to  put  Buddy  in  the 
wagon  and  clamber  in  with  him.  They  got 
out  again  at  Mrs.  Potter's  gate. 

The  house  was  closed,  and  the  doors 
locked.  Peter  tried  them  all  before  he  was 
convinced  he  had  had  the  long  tramp  for 

233 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

nothing,  and  then  he  led  Buddy  toward  the 
barn.  As  he  neared  the  barn  the  barn  door 
opened  and  a  man  came  out,  carrying  a  water 
bucket.  He  stared  at  Peter. 

"Mrs.  Potter  is  not  at  home,  I  guess  ?"  said 
Peter. 

"Nope/5  said  the  man.  "Anything  I  can 
do  for  you  ?" 

"It 's  business  on  which  I  '11  have  to  see  her 
personally/'  said  Peter.  "She  wasn't  ex- 
pecting I  'd  come.  Is  she  going  to  be  back 
soon?" 

"Well,  I  guess  she  won't  be  back  to-day," 
said  the  man.  "She  only  hired  me  about  a 
week  ago,  so  she  ain't  got  to  telling  me  all 
her  plans  yet,  but  she  told  me  it  was  as  like  as 
not  she  'd  go  up  to  Derlingport  to-day,  and 
maybe  she  might  come  home  to-morrow,  and 
maybe  not  till  next  day.  Want  to  leave  any 
word  for  her  ?" 

"No,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "I  guess  there  's 
no  word  I  could  leave.  I  guess  not.  I  'm 
234 


A  RAY  OF  HOPE 

much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  won't  leave  no 
word.  Come  on,  Buddy-boy,  we  got  to  go 
back  to  town  now,  before  night  sets  in." 

"Where  are  we  going  now,  Uncle  Peter?" 
asked  the  boy. 

"Now  ?  Well,  now  we  're  going  to  see  a 
friend  I  've  got.  You  never  slept  in  a  great, 
big  stable,  where  there  are  a  lot  of  horses,  did 
you?  You  never  went  to  sleep  on  a  great 
big  pile  of  hay,  did  you?  That'll  be  fun, 
won't  it,  Buddy-boy?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  the  child  cheer- 
fully, and  they  began  the  long,  cold  walk  to 
town. 


235 


XV 

,  AN  ENCOUNTER 

THAT  horse/'  said  George  Rapp,  slap- 
ping the  colt  on  the  flank,  "is  as  good 
a  horse  as  you  can  get  for  the  money  in  ten 
counties,  and  you  won't  find  anybody  that 
will  offer  what  I  do  in  trade  for  your  old  one. 
Nowhere." 

"You  'd  say  that  anyway,  George  Rapp," 
said  Mrs.  Potter.  "You  ain't  here  to  run 
down  what  you  want  to  sell.  Seems  to  me 
the  colt  acts  skittish." 

"What  you  said  you  wanted  was  a  young 
horse,"  said  Rapp  with  a  shrug.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  want.  You  want  a  young 
horse,  and  this  is  young,  and  you  don't  want 
a  skittish  horse,  and  all  young  horses  are 
more  or  less  that  way." 
236 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

"What  I  want  is  a  young,  strong  horse — " 
Mrs.  Potter  began. 

"You  've  told  me  that  a  million  times  and 
two,  and  if  you  tell  me  it  again  I  '11  know  it 
by  heart  well  enough  to  sing  it,"  said  Rapp. 
"There  he  stands,  just  like  you  say — a  young, 
strong  horse." 

"A  skittish  animal  like  this  colt  ain't  fit 
for  a  woman  to  drive,"  said  Mrs.  Potter. 

"And  you  ought  to  have  a  driver  to  drive 
him,  as  you  said  about  ten  thousand  times 
before,"  said  Rapp  with  good-natured  toler- 
ance, "but  Peter  Lane  ain't  come  up  to 
town  yet,  if  that's  what  you're  working 
round  to." 

"Oh,  get  along  with  you !"  said  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter. "I  got  a  hired  man  now." 

"Well,  you  meant  Peter,  didn't  you? 
Why  don't  you  come  right  out  and  say  so? 
But  I  guess  you  won't  get  Peter  to  drive  this 
colt  for  a  while  yet." 

"He  ain't  sick?" 

237 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"N(x  Nor  he  ain't  dead.  But  as  near  as 
I  can  make  out  Peter  is  goin'  to  jail." 

Mrs.  Potter  turned  sharply  and  George 
Rapp  grinned.  He  could  not  help  it,  she 
showed  such  consternation. 

"Peter — in — jail?"  she  cried. 

"Well,  not  yet/'  said  Rapp,  chuckling  at 
her  amazement.  "They  're  out  hunting  him 
now.  The  dogs  of  the  law  is  on  his  trail. 
That  feller  Briggles  I  told  you  of  got  his 
head  broke  by  a  tramp  Peter  took  into  my 
boat,  and  he  's  real  sore,  both  in  head  and 
feelings.  Last  night  him  and  a  sort  of  posse 
went  down  to  get  the  whole  crowd,  but  Peter 
had  skipped  out  with  the  kid." 

"Good  for  Peter!  Good  for  Peter!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Potter.  "I  never  looked  for  so 
much  spunk.  It  was  his  boy  as  much  as  any- 
body's, was  n't  it?" 

"Looks  so  to  me,"  said  Rapp,  "but  this  here 
United  States  of  Riverbank  County  seems  to 
think  different.  Maybe  Peter  ain't  been 
238 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

washin'  the  boy's  face  regular,  three  times  a 
day.  Anyhow,  Briggles  got  a  court  order 
for  the  boy  and  he  's  goin'  to  jug  Peter/' 

"You  talk  so  much  nonsense,  I  don't  know 
what  to  believe,"  complained  the  widow. 

"Anything  I  say  is  apt  to  be  more  or  less 
nonsense,  except  when  I  'm  talkin'  horse," 
said  Rapp,  "but  this  ain't.  Briggles  and  the 
dep'ty  sheriff  is  out  now,  swearin'  to  bring 
Peter  in  by  the  seat  of  his  pants  or  any  way 
they  can  get  him." 

"Well,  if  Peter  Lane  had  a  wife  to  look 
after  him  and  tell  him  how-so  once  in  a  while, 
he  would  n't  get  into  trouble  like  this,"  said 
Mrs.  Potter,  with  aggravation.  "He's 
enough  to  drive  a  body  crazy." 

George  Rapp's  eyes  twinkled.  "The  next 
time  I  see  Peter  I  '11  say,  Teter,  I  been  tryin' 
to  sell  a  colt  to  Mrs.  Potter  since  Lord-knows- 
when,  and  she  's  holdin'  off  until  she  gets  a 
husband  to  tend  the  colt.  I  don't  want  to 
hurry  you  none,'  I  '11  say  to  him,  'but  when 

239 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

you  get  done  servin'  them  ten  years  in  the 
penitentiary,  just  fix  it  up  for  me.  I  'd  like 
to  sell  this  colt  before  he  dies  of  old  age/' 

"You  think  you  're  smart,  George  Rapp," 
said  Mrs.  Potter,  reddening,  "but  when  you 
talk  like  that,  when  I  've  heard  Peter  Lane 
say,  a  dozen  times,  that  you  're  the  best 
friend  he  's  got  in  the  world,  it 's  time  some- 
body took  hold  for  him.  I  would  n't  buy  a 
horse  off  you,  not  if  it  was  the  only  one  in  the 
world!" 

George  Rapp  patted  the  colt  on  the  neck 
and  ran  his  hand  down  the  sleek  shoulder. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Potter,"  he  said,  "you  know 
better  than  that.  I  'm  just  as  much  Peter's 
friend  as  anybody  is.  I  '11  bail  him  out  if 
he  gets  in  jail,  and  I  '11  pay  his  fine,  if  there 
is  one.  But  don't  you  worry.  Peter  ain't  a 
fool.  By  this  time  Peter  and  that  boy  is  in 
Burlington.  Peter  's  safe—" 

It  seemed  as  if  Rapp's  cheerful  prediction 
had  been  fulfilled,  for,  as  he  spoke,  horses' 
240 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

hoofs  clattered  on  the  plank  incline  that  led 
into  the  stable.  Rapp  led  the  colt  out  of 
the  way  as  the  two-horse  rig,  containing  the 
Reverend  Rasmer  Briggles  and  the  deputy 
sheriff,  reached  the  main  floor.  It  was  evi- 
dent they  had  not  found  Peter. 

"Wild  goose  hunt  this  time,  George/'  said 
the  deputy  as  he  jumped  from  the  carriage. 

"That  so  ?"  said  Rapp,  walking  around  the 
team.  "Got  the  team  pretty  hot  for  such  cold 
weather,  did  n't  you  ?" 

"We  drove  like  blazes,"  said  the  deputy, 
"but  I  did  n't  get  heated  much.  Colder  than 
th'  dickens.  H'ar  you,  Mrs.  Potter  ?  George 
robbin'  you  again  ?" 

Mr.  Briggles  was  climbing  from  the  car- 
riage slowly.  He  was  bundled  in  a  heavy 
ulster  with  a  wide  collar  that  turned  up  over 
his  ears.  He  wore  ear-mufflers,  and  a  scarf 
was  tied  over  his  cap  and  under  his  chin. 
On  his  hands  were  thick,  fur-lined  mittens, 
and  his  trouser  legs  were  buckled  into  high 
241 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

arctics.  Over  his  nose  and  across  one  cheek 
a  strip  of  adhesive  plaster  showed  where 
Booge  had  "hit  the  old  kazoozer  and 
scratched  him  on  the  nose,"  as  he  had  sung. 
Mr.  Briggles  was  not  in  a  good  temper. 
Under  his  arrangement  with  his  society  this 
had  been  an  unprofitable  week,  for  he  had  not 
"rescued"  a  single  child  (at  twenty  dollars 
per  child).  He  slowly  untied  his  scarf,  re- 
moved his  ear-tabs  and  unbuttoned  his  ulster. 
He  affected  ministerial  garb  under  his  outer 
roughness;  it  had  a  good  effect  on  certain  old 
ladies  as  he  sat  in  their  parlors  coaxing 
money  from  them  (forty  per  cent,  commis- 
sion on  all  collected),  and  his  face  had  what 
George  Rapp  called  "that  solemncholy 
sneaker"  look  You  expected  him  to  put  his 
finger-tips  together  and  look  at  the  ceiling. 
There  are  but  few  Briggleses  left  to  prey  on 
the  gullibly  charitable  to-day,  and  thank  God 
for  that.  Their  day  is  over.  Most  of  them 
are  in  stock-selling  games  now. 
242 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

"We  were  on  sheriff's  business  to-day, 
Brother  Rapp,"  said  Briggles,  when  he  had 
opened  his  coat.  "You  can  charge  the  rig  to 
the  county." 

"How  about  that,  Joe?"  Rapp  asked  the 
deputy. 

"What's  the  diff.?"  asked  Joe  carelessly. 
"The  county  can  stand  it." 

He  had  entered  the  office,  where  Rapp  al- 
ways kept  his  barrel-stove  red  hot,  and  was 
kicking  his  toes  against  the  foot-rail  of  the 
stove. 

"Want  the  team  again  to-morrow?"  asked 
Rapp. 

"I  want  it  to-morrow,"  said  Joe.  "I  got 
to  go  to  Sweetland  to  put  an  attachment  on  to 
a  feller's  hogs.  I  don't  know  what  your 
friend  Briggles  wants." 

"I  want  you  to  help  me  find  this  boy, 
Brother — "  Briggles  began,  but  the  deputy 
merely  turned  his  back  to  the  stove  and  looked 
at  him  over  one  shoulder. 

243 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  he  said.  "I  ain't  your 
brother." 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you,  Joe?"  asked 
Rapp.  "You  act  sore." 

"Sore  nothin' !  I  'm  sick  at  my  stummik. 
You'd  be  if  you  had  to  drive  a  pole-cat 
around  the  county  all  day." 

"Now,  Brother  Venby,"  said  Mr.  Briggles 
pleadingly,  "you  misunderstood  me  entirely. 
If  you  will  let  me  explain — " 

"You  go  and  explain  to  your  grand- 
mother," said  Joe  roughly.  "You  can't  ex- 
plain to  me.  If  I  did  n't  have  on  my  dep'ty 
sheriff  badge,  I  'd  come  out  there  and  do  some 
explainin'  with  a  wagon  spoke  on  my  own 
account.  Say,  George,  did  this  feller  get  a 
rig  from  you  once  to  take  a  young  girl  that 
he  brought  down  from  Derlingport,  to  a 
'good  home'  ?  Nice  little  girl,  was  n't  she  ? 
Where  d'  you  suppose  he  took  her?  Mrs. 
Crink's !  Say,  come  in  here  a  minute." 

Rapp  went  into  the  office  and  Joe  closed  the 
244 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

door.  A  hostler  led  the  team  to  the  rear  of 
the  stable,  and  Mr.  Briggles,  as  if  feeling  a 
protective  influence  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Potter,  moved  nearer  to  her.  He  pushed 
back  his  cap  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"In  this  charity  work  we  meet  the  opposi- 
tion of  all  rough  characters,  Madame,"  he 
began  suavely,  but  she  interrupted  him. 

"You  're  the  man  that 's  pestering  Peter 
Lane,  ain't  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Only  within  the  law,  only  within  the  law !" 
said  Mr.  Briggles  soothingly.  "I  act  only 
for  the  Society,  and  the  Society  keeps  within 
the  law." 

"Law— fiddlesticks!"  said  Mrs.  Potter. 
"What 's  this  nonsense  about  putting  Peter 
Lane  in  jail  ?" 

"We  fear  we  shall  have  to  make  an  ex- 
ample of  him,"  said  Mr.  Briggles.  "The  un- 
godly throw  obstructions  in  our  path,  and  we 
must  combat  them  when  we  can.  This  Lane 
has  evaded  a  court  order.  We  trust  he  will 
245 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

receive  a  term  in  prison.  We  have  faith  that 
Judge  Bennings  will  uphold  the  right." 

"Huh!  So  that  old  rascal  of  a  Bennings 
is  the  man  that  let  you  bother  Peter  Lane, 
is  he  ?  Seems  to  me  he  's  getting  pretty  free 
with  his  court  orders  and  nonsense!  But  I 
guess  he  ain't  heard  from  me  yet !" 

She  turned  her  back  on  Mr.  Briggles  and 
almost  ran  down  the  incline  into  the  street. 
Unluckily  for  Judge  Bennings,  he  was  al- 
most too  convenient  to  Rapp's  Livery,  Feed 
and  Sale  Stable,  living  in  an  old  brick  man- 
sion that  occupied  the  corner  of  the  block 
but,  luckily  for  him,  he  was  not  at  home. 
Mrs.  Potter  poured  out  her  wrath  on  the  Ger- 
man servant  girl. 

When  Mrs.  Potter  had  hastened  away, 
Mr.  Briggles  hesitated.  He  could  see  the 
deputy  sheriff  and  George  Rapp  through  the 
smoky  glass  of  the  office  door,  and  Joe  was 
talking  steadily,  only  stopping  now  and  then 
to  expectorate,  while  Rapp's  good-natured 
246 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

face  was  scowling.  Mr.  Briggles  buttoned 
his  ulster.  From  the  look  on  George  Rapp's 
face  he  felt  it  would  be  better  to  be  out  of  the 
stable  when  Rapp  came  out  of  the  office.  He 
turned.  Peter  Lane  was  staggering  wearily 
up  the  incline  into  the  stable,  his  back  bent 
with  fatigue,  and  Buddy,  sound  asleep,  in  his 
arms.  Mr.  Briggles  watched  the  uncouth, 
blanket-draped  pair  advance,  and  when  Peter 
stood  face  to  face  with  him,  a  smile  of  sat- 
isfaction twisted  his  hard  mouth.  Peter 
looked  into  the  fellow's  shrewd  eyes  and  drew 
a  long  breath. 

"Your  name  's  Briggles,  ain't  it?"  he  asked 
listlessly.  "Mine 's  Peter  Lane.  This 
here  's  Buddy.  I  guess  we  got  to  the  end  of 
our  string/' 

Peter  shifted  the  sleeping  boy  to  his  shoul- 
der and  touched  the  child's  freckled  face 
softly. 

"I  wisht  you  would  do  what 's  possible  to 
put  him  into  a  nice  home,"  said  Peter;  "a 
247 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

home  where  he  won't  be  treated  harsh.  I  Ve 
got  so  used  to  Buddy  I  feel  almost  like  he  was 
my  own  son,  and  I  would  n't  like  him  to  be 
treated  harsh.  He  's  such  a  nice  little  fel- 
ler—" 

He  stopped,  for  he  could  say  no  more  just 
then.  He  lowered  his  arms  until  Buddy's 
head  slid  softly  from  his  shoulder  to  the  crook 
of  his  arm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  holding  out  the  sleeping 
boy,  "I  guess  you  might  as  well  take  him  now 
as  any  time." 

Mr.  Briggles  reached  forward  to  take  the 
boy  just  as  Mrs.  Potter  came  rushing  up  the 
stable  incline,  waving  her  hand  wildly. 

"Oh,  Smith  r  she  called.  "Peter  Smith  I 
You  're  just  the  man  I  been  looking  for, 
Smith!" 

Peter  stared  at  her  uncomprehendingly  for 
one  instant,  and  as  he  understood  her  useless 
little  strategy,  his  eyes  softened. 

"I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you,  Mrs. 
248 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

Potter/'  he  said,  "but  I  've  already  told  this 
man  who  I  am.     I  guess  I  '11  go  now/' 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  helplessly 
and  Mrs.  Potter  put  out  her  arms  and  took 
the  sleeping  boy. 

"Peter,  you  're  a  perfect  fool !"  she  said 
angrily. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  said  Peter.  "Yes,  I  guess 
lam!" 

He  bent  and  kissed  Buddy's  warm  cheek. 

"I  'd  like  to  be  somewheres  else  when  he 
wakes  up,"  he  explained  and  turned  away. 
He  had  started  down  the  driveway  when  Mr. 
Briggles  stepped  after  him  and  laid  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  his  arm. 

"Wait!"  said  Mr.  Briggles.  "The  sher- 
iff's deputy  is  in  the  office  here ;  he  has  been 
looking  for  you." 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right!"  said  Peter.     "You 
can  tell  Joe  I  've  gone  on  up  to  the  jail,"  and 
he  drew  his  arm  away  and  went  on  down  to 
the  street.     Mrs.  Potter  called  after  him. 
249 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Peter  Lane!  Peter!"  she  called,  but 
Peter  had  hurried  away.  Buddy  raised  his 
head  suddenly  and  looked  up  into  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter's face. 

"I  know  who  you  are/'  he  said  fearlessly. 
"You  're  Aunt  Jane." 

"No,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Potter,  "I  ain't  any- 
body's aunt.  1 'm  just  a  worthless  old  crea- 
ture." 

"Where's  Uncle  Peter?"  asked  Buddy  in 
his  sudden  way. 

"Now,  don't  you  worry,"  said  Mrs.  Potter. 
"Uncle  Peter  has  gone  away." 

"I  know,"  said  Buddy,  now  wide  awake. 
"Uncle  Peter  told  me.  I  want  to  get  down." 

Mrs.  Potter  put  him  down  and  he  stood 
leaning  against  her  knee,  holding  tightly  to 
her  skirt  and  eyeing  Mr.  Briggles  distrust- 
fully, for  his  quick  eyes  recognized  the  "old 
kazoozer"  Uncle  Booge  had  thrown  off  the 
boat,  but  before  he  could  give  utterance  to 
what  was  running  through  his  small  head,  the 
250 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

office  door  opened  and  George  Rapp  and  the 
deputy  came  out.  Rapp  walked  up  to  Mr. 
Briggles. 

"All  right,"  he  said  roughly.  "You've 
got  the  kid,  I  see,  and  I  guess  that 's  all  you 
want  in  my  stable,  so  you  pick  him  up  and 
get  out  of  here,  and  don't  you  ever  come  here 
again.  Do  you  understand  that  ?  If  you  do, 
I  'm  going  to  show  you  how  I  treat  skunks. 
Y'  understand?" 

Involuntarily  Mr.  Briggles  put  up  his  el- 
bow as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow,  and  Buddy 
clung  the  tighter  to  Mrs.  Potter's  skirt.  The 
ex-minister  reached  out  his  hand  for  the 
child,  and  Buddy  turned  and  ran. 

Mr.  Briggles  did  not  run  after  him.  He 
stood  staring  at  the  child.  "I  don't  want 
that  boy,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  him.  I 
could  n't  do  anything  with  that  boy.  He 's  a 
cripple !" 

Buddy,  stopping  at  the  head  of  the  incline, 
gazed,  wide-eyed  from  one  to  the  other. 
251 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Did  n't  anybody  want  a  boy  that  was  lame  ? 

""I  got  one  good  foot,"  he  said  boastingly. 

And  suddenly  Mrs.  Potter's  strong,  work- 
muscled  arms  gathered  Buddy  up  and  held 
him  close  to  her  breast,  so  that  one  of  the 
sharp  buttons  of  her  coat  made  him  shake 
his  head  and  forget  the  angry  tears  he  had 
been  ready  to  shed. 

"I  want  him  1"  she  cried,  her  eyes  blazing. 
"I  '11  take  him,  you — you — " 

No  one  knew  what  she  would  have  called 
Mr.  Briggles,  for  with  an  unexpectedness 
that  made  Mr.  Briggles's  teeth  snap  together 
George  Rapp  shut  an  iron  hand  on  the  back 
of  his  neck,  and  bumped  a  knee  into  Mr.  Brig- 
gles from  behind  so  vigorously  as  to  lift  him 
off  his  feet.  With  the  terrible  knee  bumping 
him  at  every  step,  Mr.  Briggles  was  rushed 
down  the  incline  with  a  haste  that  carried  him 
entirely  across  the  street  and  left  him  gasp- 
ing and  trembling  against  a  tool  box  along- 
side the  railway  tracks.  George  Rapp  re- 
252 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

turned  wiping  his  hands  in  his  coat  skirts  as 
if  he  had  just  been  handling  a  snake,  or  some 
other  slimy  creature. 

"Now  we  got  done  with  pleasure,"  he  said 
with  a  laugh,  "we  '11  talk  business.  Do  you 
want  that  colt,  or  don't  you,  Mrs.  Potter  ?" 


XVI 
JAIL  UNCLES 

THE  county  jail  stood  back  of  the  court- 
house, on  Maple  Street,  and  was  a 
three-story  brick  building,  flush  with  the  side- 
walk, with  barred  windows.  To  the  right 
was  the  stone-yard  where,  when  the  sheriff 
was  having  good  trade,  you  could  hear  the 
slow  tapping  of  hammers  on  limestone  as  the 
victims  of  the  law  pounded  rock,  breaking 
the  large  stones  into  road  metal.  As  a  fac- 
tory the  prisoners  did  not  seem  to  care 
whether  they  reached  a  normal  output  of 
cracked  rock  or  not. 

Seated  on  a  folded  gunny-sack  laid  upon  a 
smooth  stone  in  this  yard,  Booge  was  receiv- 
ing justice  at  the  hands  of  the  law.  He 
pulled  a  rough  piece  of  limestone  toward  him, 
turned  it  over  eight  or  ten  times  to  find  the 
254 


JAIL  UNCLES 

point  of  least  resistance,  settled  the  stone 
snugly  into  the  limestone  chips,  and — 
yawned.  Eight  or  ten  minutes  later,  feeling 
chilly  and  cramped  in  the  arms,  he  raised  his 
hammer  and  let  it  fall  on  the  rock,  and — 
yawned!  The  other  prisoners — there  were 
five  in  all — worked  at  the  same  breathless 
pace. 

The  stone-yard  was  protected  from  the  vul- 
gar gaze  of  the  outer  slaves  of  business  and 
labor  by  a  tall  board  fence,  notable  as  the 
only  fence  of  any  size  in  Riverbank  that  never 
bore  circus  posters  on  its  outer  surface.  Sev- 
eral times  within  the  memory  of  man  there 
had  been  "jail  deliveries"  from  the  stone- 
yard.  In  each  case  the  delivery  had  been 
effected  in  the  same  manner.  The  escaping 
prisoner  climbed  over  the  fence  and  went 
away.  One  such  renegade,  recaptured,  told 
why  he  had  fled.  "I  won't  stay  in  no  hotel/' 
he  said,  "where  they  Ve  got  cockroaches  in 
the  soup.  If  this  here  sheriff  don't  brace  up, 

255 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

there  won't  none  of  us  patronize  his  durn 
hotel  next  winter." 

Peter,  enveloped  in  his  blanket  serape, 
pulled  the  knob  of  the  door-bell  of  the  jail 
and  waited.  He  heard  the  bell  gradually 
cease  jangling,  and  presently  he  heard  feet  in 
the  corridor,  and  the  door  opened. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  asked  the  sher- 
iff's wife.  "If  you  want  Ed,  he  ain't  here. 
You  '11  have  to  come  back." 

"I  've  come  to  give  myself  up,"  said  Peter. 
"My  name  's  Peter  Lane." 

"Well,  it  don't  make  any  difference  what 
your  name  is,"  said  Mrs.  Stevens  flatly. 
"You  can't  give  yourself  up  to  me,  and  that 's 
all  there  is  to  it.  Every  time  the  weather 
turns  cold  a  lot  of  you  fellows  come  around 
and  give  yourselves  up,  and  I  'm  sick  and 
tired  of  it.  I  won't  take  another  one  of  you 
unless  you  're  arrested  in  a  proper  manner. 
Half  the  time  Ed  can't  collect  the  board 
money.  If  you  want  to  get  in  here  you  go 
256 


JAIL  UNCLES 

clown  to  tHe  calaboose  and  get  arrested  in  the 
right  way." 

"But  I  'm  sort  of  looked  for  here,"  said 
Peter.  "Joe  Venby  knows  I  'm  coming;  here, 
and  if  Ed  was  here — " 

"Oh,  if  Ed  was  here,  he'd  feed  you  for 
nothing,  I  dare  say!"  said  Mrs.  Stevens. 
"He 's  the  easiest  creature  I  ever  see.  If  it 
was  n't  for  me  he  'd  lose  money  on  this  jail 
right  along." 

"Can't  I  come  in  and  wait  for  Ed?"  asked 
Peter.  "I  ought  to  stay  here  when  I  'm 
wanted.  I  don't  want  Ed  or  Joe  to  think  I  'd 
play  a  trick  on  them." 

"You  can't  come  in!"  said  Mrs.  Stevens. 
"The  last  man  that  come  and  gave  himself  up 
to  me  stole  a  shell  box  off  my  what-not,  and  I 
won't  have  that  happen  again.  You  can 
come  back  after  a  while." 

"Can't  you  let  me  wait  in  the  stone-yard  ?" 
asked  Peter. 

"See  here !"  said  the  sheriff's  wife.  "I  'm 
257 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

busy  getting  a  meal,  and  I  Ve  no  time  to 
stand  talking.  Ed  locked  them  boarders  in 
the  yard  when  he  went  away,  and  he  took  the 
key.  If  you  want  to  get  into  that  stone-yard, 
you  '11  have  to  climb  over  the  fence,  and  that 's 
all  there  is  to  it.  I  have  no  time  to  fritter 
away  talking." 

She  slammed  the  door  in  Peter's  face,  and 
Peter  turned  away.  The  fence  was  high  but 
Peter  was  agile,  and  he  scrambled  up  and 
managed  to  throw  one  leg  over,  and  thus 
reached  the  top. 

"Come  on  in,"  Booge's  gruff  voice  greeted 
him,  and  Peter  looked  down  to  see  the  tramp 
immediately  below  him. 

"They  got  Buddy,"  said  Peter,  as  he 
dropped  to  the  ground  inside  the  fence. 

"Did,  hey?"  said  Booge,  stretching  his 
arms.  "I  was  sort  of  in  hopes  you  'd  kill 
that  old  kazoozer,  if  you  had  to.  I  don't  like 
him.  He  's  the  feller  that  married  me  and 
Lize,  and  I  ain't  ever  forgive  him.  One 

258 


JAIL  UNCLES 

Merdin  was  enough  in  a  town.  I  was  all  of 
that  name  the  world  ought  to  have  had  in 
it—" 

"Merdin?"  said  Peter.  "Is  that  your 
name?" 

"Why,  sure,  it  is.  Did  n't  I  ever  tell  you  ?" 
asked  Booge.  "No,  I  guess  I  did  n't.  Come 
to  think  of  it,  it  was  n't  important  what  you 
called  me,  and  Buddy  sort  of  clung  to  'Booge/ 
Where  is  the  little  feller  ?" 

"Your  name's  Merdin?  And  your  wife 
was  Lize  Merdin  ?"  repeated  Peter,  staring  at 
the  tramp.  "Is  that  so?" 

"Cross  my  heart.  If  you  want  me  to,  I  '11 
sing  it  for  you." 

"Booge,"  said  Peter  soberly,  "she  's  dead. 
Your  wife  is  dead." 

The  tramp  was  serious  now.  "Lize  is 
dead?"  he  asked.  "Honest,  Peter?" 

"She  's  dead,"  Peter  repeated.  "She  died 
in  my  boat.  She  come  there  one  awful 
stormy  night,  and  she  died  there.  She  was 
259 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

run  out  of  Derlingport,  and  she  died,  and  I 
buried  her/' 

Booge  put  down  his  stone-hammer  and 
for  a  full  minute  stared  at  the  chapped  and 
soiled  hands  on  his  knees.  Then  he  shook 
his  head. 

" Ain't  that  peculiar?  Ain't  that  odd?" 
he  said.  "Lize  dead,  and  she  died  in  your 
boat,  and — why!"  he  cried  suddenly,  "Bud- 
dy 's  my  boy,  ain't  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "he  's  your  boy." 

"Ain't  that  queer!  Ain't  that  strange!" 
Booge  repeated,  shaking  his  bushy  head. 
"Ain't  that  odd?  And  Buddy  was  my  boy 
all  the  time !  And  he  ?s  a  nice  little  feller, 
too,  ain't  he  ?  He 's  a  real  nice  little  feller. 
Ain't  that  odd!" 

He  still  shook  his  head  as  he  picked  up  the 
hammer.  He  struck  the  rock  before  him 
several  listless  blows. 

"I  wonder  if  Lize  told  you  what  become 
of  Susie  ?"  he  asked. 

260 


JAIL  UNCLES 

"I  know  what  become  of  her/'  said  Peter. 
"Briggles  got  her,  too.  She  's  with  a — with 
a  lady  in  town  here/'  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  tell  the  imprisoned  man  what  the 
lady  was  in  reality. 

"That 's  fine/'  said  Booge,  laughing  mirth- 
lessly. "I  knowed  all  along  I  'd  bring  up  my 
family  first-class.  All  we  needed  to  make 
our  home  a  regular  'God-bless-er'  was  for 
me  to  get  far  enough  away,  and  for  some 
one  to  get  the  kids  away  from  Lize.  Do  you 
know,  Peter,  I  feel  sort  of  sorry  for  Lize, 
too.  That 's  funny,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Not  if  she  was  your  wife,  it  ain't,"  said 
Peter. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Booge  insisted.  "A  man 
don't  feel  sorry  for  a  wife  like  that.  Gen- 
erally he  's  glad  when  she  's  gone,  but  I  sort 
of  feel  like  Lize  didn't  have  a  fair  show.. 
She  was  real  bright.  If  I  hadn't  married 
her,  she  'd  probably  have  worked  her  way 
over  to  Chicago  and  got  in  a  chorus,  or  black- 
261 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

mailed  some  rich  feller,  but  I  was  a  handi- 
cap to  her  right  along.  She  could  n't  be  out- 
and-out  whole-souled  bad  when  she  was  a 
married  lady.  She  'd  just  get  started,  and 
begin  whooping  things,  when  she  'd  remem- 
ber she  was  a  wife  and  a  mother  and  all  that, 
and  she  'd  lose  her  nerve.  She  never  got 
real  bad,  and  she  never  got  real  good.  I 
guess  I  stood  in  her  way  too  much." 

"You  mean  you  was  n't  one  thing  or  the 
other  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"Yep !  That 's  why  I  went  away,  when  I 
did  go,"  said  Booge.  "I  seen  Lize  wasn't 
happy,  and  I  was  n't  happy,  so  I  went.  The 
sight  of  me  just  made  her  miserable.  She  'd 
come  in  after  being  away  a  week  or  so,  and 
she  'd  moan  out  how  wicked  she  was,  and 
how  good  I  was,  and  that  she  was  going  to 
reform  for  my  sake,  and  she  'd  be  unhappy 
for  a  month — all  regrets  and  sorrow  and 
punishing  herself — and  then  I  'd  take  my 
turn  and  get  on  a  spree,  and  when  I  come 
262 


JAIL  UNCLES 

back,  she  'd  be  gone.  Then  she  'd  come  back 
and  go  through  the  whole  thing  once  more. 
It  was  real  torture  for  her.  She  never  fig- 
gered  that  my  kind  of  bad  was  as  bad  as  her 
kind  of  bad.  I  never  gave  her  no  help  to 
stay  straight,  either.  I  guess  what  I  'd 
ought  to  have  done  was  to  whack  her  over 
the  head  with  an  ax  handle  when  she  come 
back,  or  give  her  a  black  eye,  but  I  didn't 
have  no  real  stamina.-  I  was  a  fool  that 
way/' 

"I  don't  see  why  you  married  her,"  said 
simple  Peter. 

"Well,  I  was  a  fool  that  way,  too,"  said 
Booge.  "She  seemed  so  young  and  all,  to  be 
throwed  out  by  her  mother  and  father,  so  I 
just  married  her  because  nobody  else  offered 
to,  as  you  might  say,  to  give  her  baby  some 
sort  of  a  dad  when  it  come.  It  did  n't  get 
much  of  a  sort  of  a  dad,  either,  when  it  got 


me." 


"Then  you  ain't  Susie's  pa  ?"  asked  Peter. 
263 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"Lord,  no!" 

"And  Buddy  ?" 

"Oh,  yes !  And  ain't  he  a  nice  little  feller  ? 
Seems  like  he  's  got  all  Lize's  and  my  good 
in  him,  don't  it,  and  none  of  our  bad?  And 
to  think  I  was  there  with  him  all  the  time, 
and  you  did  n't  even  like  me  to  be  uncle  to 
him !  I  wonder — Peter,  if  you  ever  see  him 
again,  just  tell  him  his  dad  's  dead,  will  you, 
Peter?". 

"If  you  want  I  should,  Booge,"  said  Peter 
reluctantly. 

"Yes!  And  tell  him  some  sort  of  story 
about  his  poor  but  honest  parents.  Tell  him 
I  was  a  traveling  man  and  got  killed  in  a 
wreck.  Tell  him  I  had  a  fine  voice  to  sing 
with,  or  some  little  thing  like  that,  so  he  can 
remember  it.  A  little  kid  likes  to  remember 
things  like  that  when  he  grows  up  and  misses 
the  folks  he  ought  to  have." 

"I  '11  tell  him  you  were  always  kind  to  him, 
for  so  you  was — in  my  boat,"  said  Peter. 
264 


JAIL  UNCLES 

"I  '11  tell  him  that  when  he  was  a  little  fellow 
you  used  to  sing  him  to  sleep/' 

"Yes,  something  like  that/'  said  Booge, 
and  went  on  breaking  rock.  Suddenly  he 
looked  up.  "I  wonder  if  it  would  do  any 
good  for  me  to  give  you  a  paper  saying  you 
are  to  have  all  my  rights  in  him?  I  don't 
know  that  I  've  got  any,  but  I  'd  sort  of  like 
to  have  you  have  Buddy." 

They  talked  of  this  for  some  time,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  when  Booge  had  served  his 
term  and  was  released  he  was  to  sign  such 
a  paper  before  a  notary  and  leave  it  with 
George  Rapp,  and  they  were  still  discussing 
the  possibility  of  such  a  paper  being  of  any 
value  when  the  door  of  the  jail  opened  and 
the  sheriff  came  into  the  stone-yard. 

"Hello,  Peter!"  he  said.  "My  wife  tells 
me  you  want  to  see  me.  What 's  the 
trouble?" 

Peter  explained. 

"Well,  I  'm  sorry  I  've  got  to  turn  you  out," 
265 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

said  the  sheriff  regretfully.  "I  Ve  got  the 
jail  so  full  you  might  n't  be  comfortable  any- 
way, and  I  Ve  taken  in  about  all  I  can  afford 
to  take  on  speculation.  I  'd  like  to  keep  you, 
but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  it,  Peter.  I  don't 
make  enough  feeding  you  fellows  to  take  any 
risk  on  not  getting  paid.  I  guess  you  '11  have 
to  get  out." 

"But  I'm  guilty,  Ed,"  said  Peter.  "I 
guess  I  am,  anyway." 

"Can't  help  it !"  said  the  sheriff  firmly.  "I 
don't  know  nothing  about  that.  If  you  want 
to  come  to  jail,  you  Ve  got  to  be  served  with 
papers  in  the  regular  way.  The  city  don't 
O.  K.  my  bills  hit-or-miss  no  more.  I  guess 
you  '11  have  to  get  out.  I  can't  run  the  risk 
of  keeping  you  on  your  own  say-so." 

"If  you  say  so,  Ed,"  said  Peter.  "If  any- 
thing comes  up,  you  '11  know  I  Ve  tried  to  get 
into  jail,  anyway.  What  should  you  say  I 
ought  to  do?" 

"What  you  ought  to  do,"  said  the  sheriff. 
266 


JAIL  UNCLES 

"is  to  go  home  and  wait  until  somebody  comes 
and  arrests  you  in  proper  shape/' 

"I  '11  do  so,  if  you  say  so,  Ed,"  said  Peter. 
"I  'm  living  in  George  Rapp's  house-boat, 
down  at  Big  Tree  Lake,  and  if  you  want  me, 
I  '11  be  there.  I  '11  wait  'til  you  come." 

He  shook  Booge's  hand  and  the  sheriff  un- 
locked the  gate  of  the  stone-yard,  and  Peter 
passed  out  into  the  cold  world. 


267 


XVII 
FUNNY  CATS 

PETER  avoided  the  main  street,  for  he 
was  aware  he  was  a  curious  sight  in 
his  blanket  serape,  and  it  was  too  comfortable 
to  throw  away,  and,  in  addition,  would  be  his 
only  bed  clothing  when  he  reached  his  boat. 
He  hurried  along  Oak  Street  as  less  fre- 
quented than  the  main  street,  for  he  had  al- 
most the  entire  length  of  the  town  to  pass 
through.  As  it  was  growing  late  he  was 
anxious  to  strike  the  bluff  road  in  time  to 
catch  a  ride  with  some  homeward-bound 
farmer.  His  bag  of  provisions  was  still  at 
the  farmer's  on  the  hillside;  the  shanty-boat 
awaited  him,  and  he  must  take  up  his  life 
where  it  had  been  interrupted.  For  the 
268 


FUNNY  CATS 

present  he  was  powerless  to  aid  either  Susie 
or  Buddy. 

Peter  had  a  long  walk  before  him  if  he 
did  not  catch  a  ride,  and  he  started  briskly, 
but  in  front  of  the  Baptist  Church  he  paused. 
A  bulletin  board  stood  before  the  door  calling 
attention  to  a  sale  to  be  held  in  the  Sunday- 
school  room,  and  the  heading  of  the  an- 
nouncement caught  his  eye.  "All  For  The 
Children/'  it  said.  It  seemed  that  there  were 
poor  children  in  the  town — children  with  in- 
sufficient clothes,  children  with  no  shoes, 
children  without  underwear,  and  a  sale  was 
to  be  held  for  them ;  candy,  cakes,  fancy  work, 
toys  and  all  the  usual  Christmas-time  church 
sale  articles  were  enumerated.  Peter  read 
the  bulletin,  and  passed  on. 

He  was  successful  in  catching  a  ride,  and 
found  his  sack  of  provisions  at  the  farmer's 
and  carried  it  to  the  boat  on  his  back.  The 
boat  was  as  he  had  left  it,  and  little  damage 
had  been  done  during  his  absence.  The  river 
269 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

had  fallen  and  his  temporary  mooring  rope — 
too  taut  to  permit  the  strain — had  snapped, 
but  the  shanty-boat  had  grounded  and  was 
safe  locked  in  the  ice  until  spring.  Inside  the 
cabin  not  a  thing  had  been  touched.  The 
shavings  still  lay  on  the  floor  where  they  had 
fallen  while  he  was  making  Buddy's  last  toy, 
and  the  toys  themselves  were  under  the  bunk 
just  as  he  had  left  them.  Peter  felt  a 
pang  of  loneliness  as  he  gathered  them  up 
and  placed  them  on  his  table  with  the  new 
stockings  and  the  A.  B.  C.  blocks.  He  put 
the  new  "Bibel"  on  the  clock-shelf. 

The  toys  made  quite  an  array,  and  Peter 
looked  at  them  one  by  one,  thinking  of  the 
child.  There  were  more  than  a  dozen  of 
them — all  sorts  of  animals — and  they  still 
bore  the  marks  of  Buddy's  fingers.  It  was 
quite  dark  by  the  time  Peter  had  stowed 
away  his  provisions,  and  he  lighted  the  lamp, 
with  a  newly  formed  resolution  in  his  mind. 
He  dropped  the  A.  B.  C.  blocks  into  the 
270 


FUNNY  CATS 

depths  of  his  gunny-sack  and,  looking  at  each 
for  the  last  time,  let  the  crudely  carved  ani- 
mals follow,  one  by  one.  He  held  the  funny 
cat  in  his  hand  quite  a  while,  hesitatingly, 
and  then  set  it  on  the  clock-shelf  beside  the 
Bible,  but  almost  immediately  he  took  it  down 
again  and  dropped  it  among  its  fellows  in  the 
sack.  The  Bible,  too,  he  took  from  the  shelf 
and  put  in  the  sack,  and,  last  of  all,  he  added 
the  few  bits  of  clothing  Buddy  had  left  in  his 
flight.  He  tied  the  neck  of  the  sack  firmly 
with  seine  twine  and  set  it  under  the  table. 
All  his  mementos  of  Buddy  were  in  that  sack, 
and  Peter,  with  a  sigh,  chose  a  clean  piece 
of  maple  wood,  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  bunk,  and  began  whittling  a  kitchen 
spoon.  Once  more  he  was  alone ;  once  more 
he  was  a  hermit;  once  more  he  was  a  mere 
jack-knife  man,  and  Buddy  was  but  a 
memory. 

Peter  tried  to  put  even  tfie  memory  out  of 
his  mind,  but  that  was  not  as  easy  as  putting 
271 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

toys  in  a  gunny-sack.  If  he  tried  to  think 
of  painting  the  boat,  he  had  to  think  of 
George  Rapp,  and  then  he  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  hasty  parting  in  Rapp's  barn 
and  how  the  soft  kinks  of  Buddy's  hair  snug- 
gled under  the  rough  blanket  hood.  If  he 
tried  to  think  of  wooden  spoons  he  thought  of 
funny  cats.  And  if  he  tried  to  think  of  noth- 
ing he  caught  Booge's  nonsense  rhymes  run- 
ning through  his  head  and  saw  Buddy 
clinging  eagerly  to  Booge's  knee  and  beg- 
ging, "Sing  it  again,  Booge,  sing  it  again." 

"Thunder!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "I  wisht 
I  had  that  clock  to  take  apart." 

He  put  the  unfinished  spoon  aside  and, 
choosing  another  piece  of  maple  wood,  be- 
gan whittling  a  funny  cat,  singing,  "Go  tell 
the  little  baby,  the  baby,  the  baby,"  as  he 
worked.  It  was  late  when  his  eyelids 
drooped  and  he  wrapped  himself  in  his 
blanket.  Three  more  cats  had  been  added  to 
the  animals  in  the  gunny-sack. 
272 


FUNNY  CATS 

"Some  little  kid  like  Buddy  '11  like  them/' 
he  thought  with  satisfaction,  and  dropped 
asleep. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  tramped  across 
the  "bottom"  to  the  farmer's. 

"You  said  you  was  going  to  town  to-day," 
Peter  said,  "and  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  leave 
this  sack  at  the  Baptist  Church  for  me,  if  it 
ain't  too  much  out  of  your  way.  It 's  some 
old  truck  I  won't  have  any  use  for,  and  I 
took  notice  they  were  having  a  sale  there  to- 
day. You  don't  need  to  say  anything.  Just 
hand  it  in." 

Before  the  farmer  could  ask  him  in  to  have 
breakfast  Peter  had  disappeared  toward  the 
wood-yard,  and  when,  later,  he  started  for 
town  he  could  hear  Peter's  saw. 

At  the  Baptist  Church  the  farmer  left  the 
sack.  A  dozen  or  more  women  were  busily 
arranging  for  the  sale,  and  one  of  them  took 
the  sack,  holding  it  well  out  from  her  skirt. 

"For  our  sale?     How  nice!"  she  cried  in 

273 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

the  excited  tone  women  acquire  when  a 
number  of  them  are  working  together  in  a 
church.  "Who  are  we  to  thank  for  it?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  there  ain't  no  thanks  neces- 
sary," said  the  farmer.  "I  guess  you  won't 
find  it  much.  I  just  brought  it  along  because 

I  promised  I  would.     It's  from  a  shanty- 

/ 

boatman  down  my  way — Lane  's  his  name — 
Peter  Lane/' 

"Oh/'  said  the  woman,  her  voice  losing 
much  of  its  enthusiasm.  "Yes,  I  know  who 
he  is.  He  's  the  jack-knife  man.  Tell  him 
Mrs.  Vandyne  thanks  him;  it  is  very  kind 
of  him  to  think  of  us." 

"All  right!     Gedap!" 

Mrs.  Vandyne  carried  the  sack  into  the 
Sunday  school  room  and  snipped  the  twine 
with  her  scissors,  which  hung  from  her  belt 
on  a  pink  ribbon.  She  was  a  charming  little 
woman,  with  bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks, 
and  she  was  the  more  excited  this  afternoon 
because  she  had  been  able  to  bring  her  friend 
274 


FUNNY  CATS 

and  visitor,  Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  Mrs. 
Montgomery  was  making  a  real  impression. 
Mrs.  Montgomery  was  from  New  York,  and 
just  how  wealthy  and  socially  important  she 
was  at  home  every  one  knew,  and  yet  she 
mingled  with  the  ladies  quite  as  if  she  was 
one  of  them.  And  not  only  that,  but  she 
had  ideas.  Her  manner  of  arranging  the 
apron  table,  as  she  had  once  arranged  one  for 
the  Actors'  Fair,  was  enough  to  show  she 
was  no  common  person.  Already  her  ideas 
had  quite  changed  the  old  cut  and  dried  ar- 
rangements. At  her  request  ladies  were 
constantly  running  out  to  buy  rolls  of  crepe 
paper  and  other  inexpensive  decorative  ac- 
cessories, and  the  dull  gray  room  was  blos- 
soming into  a  fairy  garden. 

"And  when  you  come  to-night,  I  want. each 
of  you  to  wear  a  huge  bow  of  crepe  paper  on 
your  hair,  and — what  have  you  there, 
Jane?" 

Mrs.  Montgomery,  although  beyond  her 
275 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

fortieth  year,  had  the  fresh  and  youthfully 
bright  face  of  a  girl  of  eighteen.  She  was 
one  of  those  splendidly  large  women  who  re- 
tain a  vivid  interest  in  life  and  all  its  details, 
and  Mrs.  Vandyne,  who  was  smaller  and 
lesser  in  every  way,  was  her  Riverbank 
counterpart. 

"Nothing  much,"  Mrs.  Vandyne  answered, 
dipping  her  hand  into  the  sack.  "But  it  was 
kind  of  the  man  to  send  what  he  could. 
Wooden  spoons,  I  suppose.  Well,  will  you 
look  at  this,  Anna?" 

It  was  one  of  the  "funny  cats."  Mrs. 
Vandyne  held  it  up,  that  all  the  ladies  might 
see. 

"How  perfectly  ridiculous!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Wilcox.  "What  do  you  suppose  it  was 
meant  to  be  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  is  a  bear  ?" 

"Or  an  otter,  or  something?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ferguson.  "Oh,  I  know !  It 's  a  squirrel. 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  so — so  ridicu- 
lous!" 

276 


FUNNY  CATS 

The  ladies,  all  except  Mrs.  Montgomery, 
laughed  gleefully  at  the  funny  cat  Buddy  had 
hugged  and  loved. 

"We  might  get  a  dime  for  it,  anyway, 
Alice,"  said  one.  "Are  there  any  more? 
They  will  help  fill  the  toy  table.  Do  you 
think  they  would  spoil  the  toy  table,  Mrs. 
Montgomery?" 

The  New  Yorker  had  taken  the  cat  in  her 
hand,  and  Mrs.  Vandyne  was  standing 
one  after  another  of  Peter's  toys  on  the 
table. 

"Spoil  it!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Montgomery 
enthusiastically.  "I  have  not  seen  anything 
so  naive  since  I  was  in  Russia.  It  is  like  the 
Russian  peasant  toys,  but  different,  too.  It 
has  a  character  of  its  own.  Oh,  how  charm- 
ing!" 

She  had  seized  another  of  the  funny 
animals. 

"But  what  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilcox. 

"Mercy!  I  don't  know  what  it  w," 
277 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

laughed  Mrs.  Montgomery.  "What  does 
that  matter  ?  You  can  call  it  a  cat — it  looks 
something  like  a  cat — yes !  I  'm  sure  it  is  a 
cat.  Or  a  squirrel.  That  does  n't  matter. 
Can't  you  see  that  no  one  but  a  master  im- 
pressionist could  have  done  them  ?  Just  see 
how  he  has  done  it  all  with  a  dozen  quick 
turns  of  his — his — " 

"Jack-knife/'  Mrs.  Vandyne  supplied. 
"Do  you  think  they  are  worth  anything, 
Alice?" 

"Worth  anything?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery. "My  dear,  they  are  worth  anything 
you  want  to  ask  for  them.  Really,  they  are 
little  masterpieces.  Can't  you  see  how  re- 
freshing they  are,  after  all  the  painted  and 
prim  toys  we  see  in  the  shops?  Just  look  at 
this  funny  frog,  or  whatever  it  is." 

The  ladies  all  laughed. 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery,  "you 
can't  help  laughing  at  it.  The  man  that 
made  it  has  humor,  and  he  has  art  and — and 

278 


FUNNY  CATS 

untrammeled  vision,  and  really  the  most 
wonderful  technique." 

Peter  Lane  and  the  technique  of  a  jack- 
knife  ! 

The  ladies  of  the  Baptist  Aid  Society  were 
too  surprised  to  gasp.  The  enthusiasm  of 
Mrs.  Montgomery  took  their  breath  away, 
and  Mrs.  Montgomery  was  not  loth  to  speak 
still  more,  with  a  discoverer's  natural  pride 
in  her  discovery.  She  examined  one  toy 
after  another,  and  her  enthusiasm  grew,  and 
infected  the  other  women.  They,  too,  began 
to  see  the  charm  of  Peter's  handiwork  and  to 
glimpse  what  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  seen 
clearly:  that  the  toys  were  the  result  of  a 
frank,  humorous,  boyish  imagination  com- 
bined with  a  man's  masterly  sureness  of 
touch.  Here  was  no  jig-saw,  paper-pat- 
terned, conventional  German  or  French  slop- 
shop toy,  daubed  over  with  ill-smelling 
paint.  She  tried  to  tell  the  ladies  this,  and 
being  in  New  York  the  president  of  several 
279 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

important  art  and  literary  and  musical  so- 
cieties, she  succeeded. 

"We  must  ask  twenty-five  cents  apiece  for 
them/'  said  Mrs.  Ferguson. 

"Oh !  twenty-five  cents !  A  dollar  at  least/' 
said  Mrs.  Montgomery.  "The  work  of  an 
artist.  Don't  you  see  it  is  not  the  intrinsic 
value  but  the  art  the  people  will  pay  for?" 

"But  do  you  think  Riverbank  will  pay  a 
dollar  for  art  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Vandyne. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  glanced  over  the  toys. 

"I  will  pay  a  dollar  apiece  for  all  of  them, 
and  be  glad  to  get  them/'  she  said.  "I  feel — 
I  feel  as  if  this  alone  made  my  trip  to  River- 
bank  worth  while.  You  have  no  idea  what  it 
will  mean  to  go  home  and  take  with  me  any- 
thing so  new  and  unconventional.  I  shall  be 
famous,  I  assure  you,  as  the  discoverer  of — " 

"His  name  is  Peter  Lane/'  said  Mrs.  Van- 
dyne.  "He  is  one  of  the  shanty-boatmen 
that  live  on  the  river.  A  little,  mildly-blue- 
eyed  man;  a  sort  of  hermit.  They  call  him 
280 


FUNNY  CATS 

the  Jack-knife  Man,  because  he  whittles 
wooden  spoons  and  peddles  them." 

"Oh,  he  will  be  a  success!"  cried  Mrs. 
Montgomery.  "Even  his  name  is  delicious. 
Peter  Lane!  Isn't  it  old-fashioned  and 
charming  ?  Peter  Lane,  the  Jack-knife  Man ! 
How  many  of  these  toys  may  I  have,  Anna?" 

"I  want  one !"  said  Mrs.  Wilcox  promptly, 
and  before  the  ladies  were  through,  Mrs. 
Montgomery  had  to  insist  that  she  be  per- 
mitted to  claim  two  of  the  toys  by  her  right 
as  discoverer. 

Later,  as  they  went  homeward  for  supper, 
Mrs.  Vandyne  gave  a  happy  little  laugh. 

"That  was  splendid,  Alice,"  she  said.  "To 
think  you  were  able  to  make  them  pay  a  dollar 
apiece  for  those  awful  toys!" 

"Awful!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Montgomery. 
"My  dear,  I  meant  every  word  I  said.  You 
will  see !  Your  Peter  Lane  is  going  to  make 
me  famous  yet!" 

That  evening,  while  Peter  sat  in  his 
281 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

shanty-boat,  lonely  and  thinking  of  Buddy  as 
he  whittled  a  spoon,  Mrs.  Montgomery  stood, 
tall  and  imposing  and  sweet-faced,  behind 
the  toy  table  on  which  all  of  Buddy's  toys 
stood  with  "Sold"  tags  strung  on  them,  and 
told  about  Peter  Lane,  the  Jack-knife  Man. 

"I  'm  very  sorry/'  she  said  time  after  time, 
"but  they  are  all  sold.  We  do  not  know  yet 
whether  we  can  persuade  the  Jack-knife  Man 
to  make  duplicates,  but  we  will  take  your 
order  subject  to  his  whim,  if  you  wish.  We 
cannot  promise  anything  definite.  Artists 
are  so  notably  irresponsible." 

But  there  was  one  voice  which,  had  Peter 
been  able  to  hear  it,  would  have  set  him  mak- 
ing jack-knife  toys  on  the  instant.  While  the 
ladies  of  the  Baptist  Church  were  exclaiming 
over  the  toys  in  the  Sunday  school  room  a 
small  boy  with  freckles  and  white,  kinky  hair, 
was  leaning  on  the  knee  of  a  harsh-faced 
woman  in  a  white  farm  house  three  miles  up 
the  river-road. 

282 


FUNNY  CATS 

"Auntie  Potter/'  he  said  longingly,  "I  wish 
Uncle  Peter  would  come  and  make  me  a 
funny  cat/' 

"If  he  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Potter  with  great 
vigor,  "he  's  a  wuthless  scamp," 


283 


XVIII 
MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

NEW  YORK,  being  a  great  mill  that 
grinds  off  rough  corners  and  operates, 
as  it  seems,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  make 
each  New  York  inhabitant  and  each  New 
York  creation  a  facsimile  of  every  other  New 
York  inhabitant  and  creation,  loves  those  who 
introduce  the  quaint,  the  strange  and  the  out- 
landish— which  is  to  say,  anything  not  after 
the  conventional  New  York  model.  Women 
have  become  rich  with  the  discovery  of  a  rag 
rug  or  a  corn-husk  door-mat. 

To  Mrs.  Montgomery  the  trip  to  Peter 

Lane's  shanty-boat  was  a  path  to  fame.     Her 

quick  perception  grasped  every  detail  and 

saw  its  value  or,  to  put  it  most  crudely,  its 

284 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

advertising  potency.  As  she,  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Vandyne,  whirled  down  the  smooth 
bluff  road  in  the  Vandyne  barouche,  she  said : 
"Anna,  I  do  wish  we  could  have  come  in  an 
ox-cart,  or  a-straddle  little  donkeys,  or  in  a 
hay-wagon,  at  least." 

"My  dear !  Is  n't  this  comfortable 
enough  ?" 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  my  talk  before  the 
Arts  and  Crafts  Club.  It  makes  such  a  dif- 
ference. It  is  so  conventional  to  be  taken 
in  a  carriage.  And  probably  I  '11  find  your 
Peter  Lane  just  an  ordinary  man,  and  his 
shanty-boat  nothing  but  a  common  house- 
boat." 

But  when  the  carriage  ran  into  the 
farmer's  yard — it  was  Sunday — and  the 
farmer  volunteered  to  show  the  route  to 
Peter's  shanty-boat,  and  warned  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery, after  a  glance  at  her  handsome  furs, 
that  it  would  be  a  rough  tramp,  her  spirits 

285 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

rose  again.  Perhaps  there  would  be  some 
local  color  after  all.  The  event  fully  sat- 
isfied her. 

In  single  file  they  tramped  the  long  path 
to  the  boat,  stooping  under  low  boughs,  climb- 
ing over  fallen  tree  trunks,  dipping  into 
hollows.  Rabbits  turned  and  stared  at  them 
and  scurried  away.  Great  grapevine  swings 
hung  from  the  water  elms,  and  when  the 
broad  expanse  of  Big  Tree  Lake  came  into 
view  Mrs.  Montgomery  stood  still  and  ab- 
sorbed the  scene.  It  represented  absolute 
loneliness — acres  of  waving  rice  straw,  acres 
of  snow-covered  ice  and,  close  under  the 
bank,  the  low,  squat  shanty-boat  overshad- 
owed by  the  leafless  willows.  It  was  a  ro- 
mantic setting  for  her  hermit 

The  farmer  had  brought  them  by  the 
shorter  route,  so  that  they  had  to  cross  the 
lake,  and  Peter,  gathering  driftwood,  was 
amazed  to  see  the  procession  issue  from  the 
rice  and  come  toward  him  across  the  lake. 
286 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

"That's  Peter/'  said  the  farmer.  "He 
acts  like  he  did  n't  expect  comp'ny." 

Peter  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  wil- 
lows, his  arms  full  of  driftwood,  the  gray 
blanket  serape  with  its  brilliant  red  stripes 
hanging  to  his  ankles,  and  a  home-made 
blanket  cap  pulled  down  over  his  ears.  He 
stood  like  a  statue  until  they  reached  him, 
then  doffed  his  cap  politely,  and  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery saw  his  eyes  and  knew  this  was  the 
artist. 

"I  guess  you  'd  better  step  inside  my  boat, 
if  it 's  big  enough,"  said  Peter,  "but  it 's  sort 
of  mussy.  Maybe  you'd  like  to  wait  out 
here  'til  I  sweep  out.  I  been  whittlin'  all 
morning." 

"We  will  go  in  just  as  it  is/'  said  Mrs. 
Montgomery  promptly.  "I  want  to  see 
where  you  work,  just  as  it  is  when  you 
work." 

Peter  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

"You  ain't  mistook  in  the  man  you're 

287 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

lookin'  for,  are  you,  ma'am?"  He  asked. 
"I  'm  Peter  Lane.  I  don't  work  in  this  boat. 
Lately  I  Ve  been  workin'  up  at  the  farmer's, 
sawin'  wood." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  laughed  delightedly, 
and  Peter,  looking  into  her  eyes,  grinned. 
He  liked  this  large,  wholesome  woman. 

"You  are  the  man !"  said  Mrs.  Montgom- 
ery gaily.  "And  since  Mrs.  Vandyne  won't 
introduce  me,  I  '11  introduce  myself." 

Peter  was  justified  in  his  doubts  regarding 
the  capacity  of  his  boat,  and  the  farmer,  after 
trying  to  feel  comfortable  inside,  went  out 
and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  deck.  The  shav- 
ings on  the  floor,  the  wooden-spoons  (there 
were  but  three  or  four),  the  boat  itself — 
when  she  learned  Peter  had  built  it  himself — 
all  delighted  her.  She  asked  innumerable 
questions  that  would  have  been  impertinent 
but  for  her  kindly  smile,  and  she  was  de- 
lighted when  she  learned  that  Peter  had  but 
one  blanket,  which  was  his  coat  by  day  and 
288 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

his  bed-clothing  by  night.  But  more  than  all 
else  she  liked  Peter's  kindly  eyes.  She  ex- 
plained, in  detail,  the  object  of  their  visit,  and 
Peter  listened  politely. 

"It 's  right  kind  of  you  to  come  down  so 
far/'  he  said  when  he  had  heard,  "but  I  guess 
I  '11  have  to  refuse  you,  Mrs.  Montgomery. 
I  don't  seem  to  have  no  desire  to  make  no 
more  funny  toys.  I  guess  I  won't." 

"I  can  understand  the  feeling  perfectly," 
said  Mrs.  Montgomery,  too  wise  to  try 
coaxing.  "You  have  an  artist's  reluctance 
to  undertake  for  pay  what  you  have  done 
for  pleasure  only." 

"It  ain't  that,"  said  Peter.  "I  just 
whittled  out  them  toys  for  a  little  feller  I  had 
here,  because  he  used  to  laugh  at  them. 
That's  all  I  done  it  for,  and  since  he  ain't 
here  to  laugh,  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  could  get 
the  grin  into  them.  I  don't  know  as  I  can 
explain;  I  don't  know  as  you  could  under- 
stand if  I  did—" 

289 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"But  I  do,  I  do!"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery 
eagerly.  "You  mean  you  lack  the  sympa- 
thetic audience/' 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Peter  doubtfully. 
"What  I  do  mean  is,  that  I  'd  miss  the  look 
in  his  eyes  and  how  he  quirked  up  his  mouth 
whilst  I  was  cutting  out  a  toy.  Maybe  it 
looks  to  you  like  this  hand  and  this  old 
whetted-down  jack-knife  was  what  made 
them  toys,  but  that  ain't  so!  No,  ma'am! 
All  I  done  was  to  take  a  piece  of  maple  wood 
and  start  things  going.  'This  is  going  to  be 
a  cat,  Buddy,'  I  'd  say,  maybe,  and  he  'd 
sparkle  up  at  me  and  say,  'A  funny  old  cat, 
Uncle  Peter!'  and  then  it  had  got  to  be  a 
funny  old  cat,  like  he  said.  And  his  eyes  and 
his  mouth  would  tell  me  just  how  funny  to 
make  that  cat,  and  just  how  funny  not  to 
make  it.  He  sort  of  seen  each  whittle  be- 
fore I  seen  it  myself,  and  told  me  how  to 
make  it  by  the  look  of  his  eyes  and  the  way 
his  mouth  sort  of  felt  for  it  until  I  got  it  just 
290 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

right.  And  then  he  would  laugh.  So  you 
see,  now  that  Buddy's  gone,  I  couldn't — 
no,  I  guess  I  could  n't !" 

"And  you  made  no  more  after  Buddy — 
after  he  left?" 

"He  didn't  die/'  said  Peter,  "if  that's 
what  you  mean.  He  was  took  away. 
Yes  'm.  I  did  make  a  couple.  I  made  a 
couple  more  cats  to  put  in  the  gunny-sack. 
But  that  was  because  I  sort  of  saw  Buddy  a 
sittin'  there  on  the  floor,  even  when  he  was 
gone." 

"But  don't  you  see,"  cried  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery eagerly,  "that  you  can  always  see 
Buddy  ?  Don't  you  know  there  are  hundreds 
of  other  Buddys — boys  and  girls — all  over 
the  country,  and  that,  as  you  work,  a  man  of 
your  imagination  can  feel  their  eyes  and 
smiling  mouths  guiding  your  hand  and  your 
knife?  They  want  your  'funny  cats,'  too, 
Mr.  Lane.  Don't  you  see  that  you  could 
sit  here  in  your  lonely  boat,  and  have  all  the 
291 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

children  of  America  clustered  about  your 
knee?" 

"Yes,  I  do  sort  of  see  it,"  said  Peter,  "but 
it 's  a  thing  I  'm  liable  to  forget  any  time." 

"But  you  must  not  forget  it!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Montgomery.  "Your  work  is  too 
rare,  too  valuable  to  permit  you  to  forget. 
How  many  artists,  do  you  suppose,  are,  like 
the  musicians,  able  to  draw  their  inspiration 
face  to  face  from  their  audiences  ?  Very  few, 
Mr.  Lane.  Do  you  suppose  a  Dickens  was 
able  to  have  those  for  whom  he  wrote 
crowded  in  his  workroom?  And  yet  those 
he  worked  to  please  guided  his  pen.  He 
heard  the  laughs  and  saw  the  tears  and  was 
guided  by  them  as  he  chose  the  words  that 
were  to  cause  the  laughs  and  tears.  You, 
too,  can  see  the  children's  faces." 

She  paused,  for  she  saw  in  Peter's  eyes 
that  he  understood  and  agreed. 

"But  then  there  's  another  reason  I  can't 
whittle  more  toys,"  he  said.  "I  Ve  got  about 
292 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

thirty  more  cords  of  wood  to  saw  this 
winter." 

"But  that  is  not  like  you !"  said  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery reproachfully.  "You  see  I  know 
you,  Mr.  Lane!  You  are  not  the  man  to 
saw  wood  when  all  the  Buddys  are  eager 
for  your  toys/' 

"It  ain't  like  me  usually,"  admitted  Peter. 
"I  don't  know  who  's  been  telling  you  about 
me,  but  usually  I  don't  do  any  work  I  don't 
have  to,  and  that 's  a  fact,  but  certain  cir- 
cumstances— "  he  hesitated.  "You  didn't 
know  why  they  took  Buddy  away  from  me, 
did  you  ?  I  was  n't  fit  to  keep  him.  I  was 
like  a  certain  woman  was  always  tellin'  me, 
I  guess — shiftless  and  no-'count — so  they 
took  Buddy.  And  I  guess  they  were  right. 
But  I  've  changed.  It 's  going  to  take  some 
time,  but  I  'm  going  to  make  money,  and 
I  'm  going  to  be  like  other  folks,  and  I  'm 
going  to  get  Buddy  back.  So  you  see,"  he 
said,  after  this  outburst,  "I  've  got  to  saw 

293 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

wood.  If  it  was  n't  for  that  I  'd  be  right 
eager  to  make  toys  for  all  the  kids  you  speak 
of.  It  would  be  a  pleasure.  But  I  Ve  got 
to  make  some  money/5 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stared  at  him.  "You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me — "  she  began.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  thought  I  wanted  you 
to  give  up  everything  and  make  toys  for 
nothing?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Peter. 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Lane!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Montgomery.  "I  do  believe  I  almost  per- 
suaded you  to  do  it!"  She  laughed  joy- 
ously. "Oh,  you  are  a  true  artist!  Why, 
you  can  make  many,  many  times  as  much 
money  whittling  jack-knife  toys  as  you  could 
make  sawing  wood !  You  can  hire  your  own 
wood  sawed." 

She  descended  to  details  and  told  him  what 
he  could  sell  the  toys  for ;  how  she  would  tell 
of  them  in  New  York  and  interest  a  few 
dealers. 

294 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

"You'll  be  working  for  Buddy  all  the 
while  you  are  working  for  the  other 
Buddys,"  she  ended,  "making  the  home  you 
want  while  you  make  the  toys  that  will  make 
little  children  happy/' 

"That 's  so/'  agreed  Peter  eagerly,  and 
her  battle  was  won.  The  rest  was  mere  de- 
tail— her  address  in  New  York,  prices,  sam- 
ples, Peter's  address,  and  other  similar  mat- 
ters. The  farmer  was  willing  enough  to 
hunt  another  man  to  saw  his  wood.  Mrs. 
Vandyne  placed  the  orders  with  which  she 
had  been  commissioned  by  the  Baptist  la- 
dies ;  Mr.  Vandyne — the  cashier  of  the  First 
National  Bank — actually  shook  Peter's  hand 
in  farewell,  and  Peter  was  alone  again. 

When  the  voices  of  his  visitors  had  died 
in  the  distance  he  lifted  the  mattress  of  his 
bunk  and  felt  under  it  with  his  hand  until  he 
found  a  round,  soft  ball.  He  unrolled  it  and 
smoothed  it  out — Buddy's  old,  worn  stock- 
ings, out  at  knees  and  toes. 
295 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

"There,  now,"  he  said,  hanging  them  on 
a  nail  under  his  clock-shelf,  "I  guess  I  ain't 
afraid  to  have  you  look  me  in  the  face  now." 
•          •••••• 

"What  happened  to  the  child  he  men- 
tioned?" Mrs.  Montgomery  asked  when  she 
was  snugly  rug-enwrapped  in  the  barouche 
once  more. 

"I  think  some  society  took  it,"  Mrs.  Van- 
dyne  answered.  "I  '11  have  Jim  look  it  up. 
No  doubt  Jim  can  have  the  boy  returned  to 
Peter  Lane." 

"I  '11  do  what  I  can,"  said  Mr.  Vandyne, 
but  Mrs.  Montgomery  was  silent  while  the 
carriage  traveled  a  full  mile. 

"I  wouldn't!"  she  said  at  last.  "No,  I 
wouldn't!  You  might  see  that  the  boy  is 
where  he  is  properly  cared  for,  but  I  think 
it  will  be  best  to  let  the  Jack-knife  Man  earn 
the  boy  himself.  I  know  what  he  has  been, 
and  I  can  see  what  he  hopes  to  be.  If  he 
could  step  outside  himself  and  see  as  we 
296 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

see,  he  would  say  what  I  say.  The  best 
thing  for  him  is  to  have  something  to  work 
for." 

"He  could  work  for  money,  like  the  rest 
of  us,"  suggested  Mr.  Vandyne. 

"Oh,  you  utter  Philistine!"  cried  Mrs. 
Montgomery.  "You  must  wait  until  he  gets 
the  habit,  and  then — !" 

"Then  what?" 

"Then  he  will  have  a  bank-book,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Montgomery. 

•          •••••• 

The  winter  passed  rapidly  enough  for 
Peter.  Between  the  stockings,  and  the  vi- 
sion of  the  children  Mrs.  Montgomery  had 
conjured  up,  and  his  eagerness  to  win  a  home 
for  Buddy,  Peter  worked  as  faithfully  as 
an  artist  should,  and  he  made  many  raids  on 
the  farmer's  wood-pile  to  secure  dry,  well- 
seasoned,  maple  wood. 

When  the  vision  of  Buddy's  eyes  grew  dim 
Peter  was  always  able  to  bring  it  back  by 
297 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

humming  Booge's  song,  and  before  the  win- 
ter was  over  Peter  had  crowded  his  clock 
shelf  with  toys  and  had  constructed  another 
shelf,  which  was  filling  rapidly,  for  while  he 
made  many  duplicates  he  kept  one  of  each 
for  Buddy — "Buddy's  menagerie/'  he  called 
them.  Thus  he  kept  his  own  interest  alive, 
too,  for  when  it  flagged  he  made  a  new  ani- 
mal, making  it  as  he  thought  Buddy  would 
like  it  made  and  so  that  it  would  bring  that 
happy  "Ho !  ho !  That 's  a  funny  old  squ'ail, 
Uncle  Peter." 

One  letter  Peter  wrote,  soon  after  the  visit 
to  his  boat,  which  was  to  Mrs.  Vandyne. 
It  brought  this  answer:  "My  husband 
called  at  the  place  you  mentioned,  but  the 
little  girl  is  there  no  longer.  I  can  find  no 
trace  of  her.  Mr.  Briggles,  I  understand, 
has  had  to  leave  this  state  and  no  one  knows 
where  he  is." 

Peter  had  no  time  to  go  to  town.  Mrs. 
Montgomery  had  been  as  good  as  her  word, 
298 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

and  had,  on  her  return  to  New  York  in  mid- 
season,  introduced  the  "Peter  Lane  Jack- 
Knife  Toys"  to  her  Arts  and  Crafts  Club, 
and  to  two  of  those  small  shops  on  the  Ave- 
nue that  seem  so  inconspicuous  and  yet  are 
known  to  every  one.  The  toys,  after  their 
first  few  weeks  as  a  fashionable  fad,  settled 
into  a  vogue  and  James  Vandyne,  whom 
Mrs.  Montgomery  had  wisely  asked  to  act 
as  Peter's  agent,  received  letters  from  other 
shops,  and  from  wholesalers,  asking  for 
them.  The  toys  were,  of  course,  almost  im- 
mediately counterfeited  by  other  dealers,  and 
it  was  Vandyne  who  wisely  secured  copy- 
rights on  Peter's  models,  and  who,  later  in 
the  winter,  sent  Peter  a  small  branding-iron 
with  which  he  could  burn  his  autograph  on 
each  toy. 

Peter's  farmer  friend  stopped  at  the  bank 

on  each  trip  to  town,  delivering  the  toys, 

which  Vandyne  tagged  and  turned  over  to 

the  express  company.     The  farmer  brought 

299 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

back  such  supplies  as  Peter  had  commis- 
sioned him  to  buy.  The  entire  business  was 
crude  and  unsystematic,  even  to  Peter's 
method  of  packing  the  toys  in  hay  and  sew- 
ing the  parcels  in  gunny-sacking,  but  it  all 
served.  It  was  naive. 

When  the  ice  in  the  river  went  out,  and 
that  in  Big  Tree  Lake  softened  and  honey- 
combed, Peter  put  aside  his  jack-knife  for 
a  few  days  and  repaired  the  old  duck-blind 
that  had  been  Booge's  damp  and  temporary 
home,  and  built  two  more,  knowing  George 
Rapp  and  his  friends  would  be  down  before 
long.  He  built  two  more  bunks  in  the  nar- 
row shanty-boat  and  cleared  a  tent  space  on 
the  highest  ground  near  the  boat,  con- 
structing a  platform  four  feet  above  the 
ground,  in  case  the  high  water  should  come 
with  the  ducks.  All  this  put  a  temporary 
close  to  his  toy-making,  but  Peter  was  ready 
for  Rapp  when  the  first  flock  of  ducks 
dropped  into  the  lake,  and  that  night  he  sent 
300 


MORE  FUNNY  CATS 

the  farmer's  hired  man  to  town  with  a  mes- 
sage to  Rapp.  Late  the  next  evening  Rapp 
and  his  two  friends  found  Peter  waiting  for 
them  at  the  road,  and  the  best  part  of  the 
night  was  spent  getting  the  provisions  and 
duck-boats  to  the  slough.  The  four  men 
dropped  asleep  the  instant  they  touched  their 
beds,  and  it  was  not  until  the  next  morning, 
when  Peter  was  cooking  breakfast  that  he 
had  an  opportunity  to  ask  a  question  that 
had  been  in  his  mind. 

"George,"  he  said,  "you  did  n't  ever  hear 
where  they  took  Buddy  to,  did  you?" 

Rapp  looked  up,  and  stared  at  Peter  until 
the  match  with  which  he  had  been  lighting 
his  pipe  burned  his  fingers,  and  he  snapped 
them  with  pain. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know 
where  that  boy  is?"  he  asked.  "Well— 1 11 
—be — Petered!  Why,  Mrs.  Potter's  got 
him!" 

Peter  was  holding  a  plate,  but  he  was 
301 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

quick,  and  he  caught  it  before  it  struck  the 
floor. 

"I — I  caught  that  one/'  he  said  in  silly 
fashion. 

"You  're  going  to  catch  something  else 
when  Widow  Potter  sees  you,"  said  George 
Rappo 


302 


XIX 

PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 

TO-DAY,  if  we  saw  a  woman  gowned 
as  Mrs.  Montgomery  was  gowned 
when  she  visited  Riverbank,  we  would  laugh 
her  to  ridicule,  but  the  toys  Peter  Lane  whit- 
tled that  winter  are  still  admired  for  their  de- 
sign and  execution.  There  is  a  collection  of 
them  in  the  rooms  of  the  Riverbank  Histori- 
cal Society.  We  laugh,  too,  when  we  see 
photographs  of  Main  Street  as  it  was  when 
Peter  came  to  town  after  his  winter  on  Big 
Tree  Lake,  with  the  mud  almost  hub  deep. 
That  was  before  the  new  banks  were  built 
or  the  brick-paving  laid,  and  Main  Street  was 
a  ragged,  ill-kept  thoroughfare,  with  none 
of  the  city  airs  it  has  since  donned.  But  as 

303 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Peter  stepped  out  of  the  First  National  Bank, 
and  stood  for  a  minute  on  the  steps  in  the 
warm  spring  sunshine,  the  street  looked  like 
an  old  friend,  and  this  was  the  more  odd 
because  it  had  never  looked  like  a  friend  be- 
fore. 

Jim  Vandyne  had  just  cashed  the  checks 
and  money  orders  Peter  had  accumulated 
during  the  winter.  They  were  for  small 
amounts — a  few  dollars  each — and  not  until 
the  cashier  had  pushed  the  pile  of  crisp  bills 
under  the  wicket,  mentioning  the  amount,  did 
happy-go-lucky  Peter  realize  how  much  his 
winter  earnings  had  amounted  to. 

"Quite  a  lot  of  money/'  Jim  had  said. 
"How  would  you  like  to  open  an  account?" 
and  Peter  had  opened  his  first  bank  account. 
The  warm,  leather-bound  bank-book  now  re- 
posed in  his  pocket.  Peter  could  feel  it 
pressing  against  him,  and  he  could  feel  the 
extra  bulge  the  check-book  made  in  his  hip 
pocket.  He  felt  like  a  serf  raised  to  knight- 
304 


PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 

hood,  with  armor  protecting  him  against 
harm.  As  he  stood  there,  Mr.  Howard,  the 
bank's  president,  came  briskly  down  the 
street.  He  was  a  short,  chubby  man,  and 
he  had  always  nodded  cheerfully  to  Peter, 
but  now  he  stopped  and  extended  his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do!"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"Jim  Vandyne  has  been  telling  me  what  you 
have  been  doing  this  winter.  Glad  to  know 
you  are  making  a  go  of  it." 

It  was  not  much.  The  bank  president  was 
not  a  great  bank  president,  and  the  bank  was 
not  much  of  a  bank — as  great  banks  go — 
and  he  had  not,  after  all,  said  much,  but  it 
made  Peter's  brown  cheeks  glow.  Bank 
presidents  do  not  often  stop  to  shake  hands 
with  shanty-boatmen,  nor  do  they  pause  to 
congratulate  them,  although  the  bank  presi- 
dent may  be  an  infernal  rascal  and  the 
shanty-boatman  a  moral  king.  But  Peter 
did  not  philosophize.  He  knew  that  if 
enough  bank  presidents  shake  the  hand  of  an 

305 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

ex-shanty-boatman  the  world  will  consider 
the  shanty-boatman  respectable  enough  to 
raise  one  freckle-faced,  kinky-headed  little 
waif  of  a  boy. 

Peter  raised  his  head  higher  than  ever,  and 
he  had  always  held  it  high.  He  was  a  man, 
like  other  men,  now.  He  could,  if  he 
wished,  build  another  shanty-boat.  He 
could  hire  it  built.  He  could  rent  a  house 
and  put  a  carpet  on  the  parlor  floor.  He 
could  say  he  was  going  to  Florida  and  peo- 
ple would  believe  him.  He  could — buy  a 
suit  of  clothes!  A  whole,  complete,  entire 
suit,  vest  and  all!  It  had  been  years  and 
years  since  he  could  do  that,  and  when  he  had 
been  able  to  do  it  he  had  always  spent  the 
money  otherwise.  Now  he  crossed  the 
street  and  entered  the  Riverbank  Clothing 
Emporium.  It  gave  him  a  warming  feeling 
of  respectability  to  be  buying  clothes,  but  he 
did  not  plunge  recklessly.  He  bought  ev- 
erything he  needed,  from  socks  and  shoes  to 
306 


PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 

tie  and  hat,  but  the  shoes  were  stout  and 
cheap,  and  the  shirt  a  woolen  one,  and  the 
hat  a  soft  felt  that  would  stand  wind  and 
weather. 

Mr.  Rosenheim  himself  came  and  stood  by 
Peter  when  he  was  trying  on  the  shoes. 

"My  wife  was  showing  me  the  piece  about 
you  in  the  magazine/'  he  said.  "I  guess  you 
are  the  first  man  in  Riverbank  to  get  into 
magazines.  We  should  be  proud  of  you, 
Lane." 

"Who,  me  in  a  magazine  ?     I  guess  not." 

"Oh,  sure !  I  read  some  of  it.  Some  such 
Art  and  Crafts  magazine,  with  photo  cuts 
from  them  toys  you  make.  Ain't  you  seen 
it?" 

"Nope !  Let  me  try  on  a  seven  and  a  half 
B,"  he  said  calmly,  but  his  pulse  quickened. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  are  used  to  being 
puffed  up  already,"  said  Mr.  Rosenheim.  "I 
wish  I  could  get  such  free  advertising." 

When  Peter  looked  at  himself  in  the  store 
307 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

mirror  he  was  well  satisfied.  Mr.  Rosen- 
heim  nodded  his  approval. 

"That  suit  looks  like  it  was  made  for  you, 
Mr.  Lane,"  he  said,  and  he  did  not  know 
what  a  great  truth  he  was  uttering,  for 
Peter,  so  long  in  rags,  and  the  simple, 
quiet  suit  seemed  well  fitted  for  each 
other's  company.  Peter  went  out  upon 
the  street,  and  at  the  first  corner  he  met — 
Booge ! 

He  was  the  same  old,  frowsy,  hairy 
Booge,  and  he  greeted  Peter  in  the  same  deep 
bass. 

"Did  you  get  the  papers,  to  rescue  the 
chee-ild?"  he  asked  melodramatically.  "I 
hid  them  under  the  stone  at  the  corner  of  the 
lane.  Meet  me  at  midnight!  Hush!  A 
stranger  approaches !" 

There  were  several  strangers  approach- 
ing, for  they  were  standing  on  the  corner  of 
the  two  principal  streets.  Peter  grinned. 

"George  Rapp  brought  it  down  to  me/'  he 
308 


PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 

said.  "I  thought  you  were  in  for  six 
months." 

"Sheriff  discharged  me,"  said  Booge.  "I 
ate  too  much.  He  could  n't  figure  a  profit, 
so  he  kicked  me  out." 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

"No,  teacher  excused  me  at  noon  so  I  could 
go  to  dancing  class,"  said  Booge. 

"How  did  you  get  out  ?"  Peter  insisted. 

"There  was  n't  room  for  me  and  Briggles 
in  the  same  jail,"  said  Booge.  "We  was  al- 
ways singin'  out  of  harmony." 

"Was  Briggles  in  jail?" 

They  caught  the  old  kazoozer,  kazoozer,  kazoozer, 
They  caught  the  old  kazoozer  and  took  him  to  the 
jail, 

hummed  Booge,  "and  I  got  excused  so  I  could 
go  and  hunt  up  Susie:  I  was  her  responsible 
guardian.  Ain't  that  a  joke?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  asked 
Peter. 

"I  dunno!"  said  Booge  thoughtfully.     "I 

309 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

ain't  made  up  my  mind  whether  to  run  for 
mayor  or  buy  the  op'ry  house,  but  if  anybody 
was  to  give  me  a  nickel  I  'd  give  up  whisky 
and  buy  beer.  If  not,  I  '11  stand  around  here 
'til  I  do  get  arrested.  The  town  cop  has 
promised  and  promised  to  do  it,  but  he  ain't 
reliable.  I  've  got  so  I  don't  depend  on  his 
word  no  more/' 

Peter  took  a  silver  dollar  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  the  tramp,  and  Booge 
started  across  the  street  to  the  nearest  sa- 
loon without  farewell.  Peter  took  a  step 
after  him  and  then  turned  back. 

"I  guess  it 's  what  he  likes,"  he  said,  "and 
I  could  n't  stop  him  if  I  wanted  to." 

Peter  turned  into  the  Star  Restaurant  and 
took  a  seat  at  one  of  the  red-covered  tables. 

"Bob,"  he  said,  "can  you  get  me  up  one 
of  them  oyster  stews  of  yours  ?  One  of  them 
milk  stews,  with  plenty  of  oysters  and  a  hunk 
of  butter  thawing  out  on  top.  Fix  me  one. 
And  then  I  want  a  chicken — a  nice,  fresh, 
310 


PETER  GOES  TO  TOWN 

young  chicken,  killed  about  day  before  yes- 
terday— split  open  and  br'iled  right  on  top 
of  the  coals,  so  the  burned  smell  will  come 
sifting  in  before  the  chicken  is  ready,  and  I 
want  it  on  a  hot  plate — a  plate  so  hot  I  '11 
holler  when  I  grab  it.  And  I  want  some 
of  your  fried  potatoes  in  a  side  dish — hashed 
browned  potatoes,  browned  almost  crisp  in 
the  dish,  with  bacon  chopped  up  in  them. 
And  I  want  a  big  cup  of  coffee  with  real 
cream,  even  if  you  have  to  send  out  for  it. 
And  then,  Bob,  I  want  a  whole  lemon 
meringue  pie.  A  whole  one,  three  inches 
thick  and  fourteen  inches  across.  I  Ve  been 
wanting  to  eat  a  whole  lemon  meringue  pie 
ever  since  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  now 
I  'm  going  to.  I  'm  going  to  have  one  full, 
fine,  first-class  meal  and  then — " 

"Then  what?'5  asked  Bob. 

"Then  I  'm  going  to  go  and  get  an  alarm- 
clock  that  belongs  to  me." 

3" 


XX 

PETER  GETS  HIS  CLOCK 

TT*OR  a  man  who  means  to  walk  it,  con- 
-L  sidering  the  usual  state  of  the  river- 
road  in  spring,  the  railway  is  the  best  path 
between  Riverbank  and  Widow  Potter's 
farm,  and  Peter,  leaving  the  town,  took  to  the 
railway  track.  He  had,  he  assured  himself, 
a  definite  purpose  in  visiting  Mrs.  Potter. 
She  had  expressed  her  views  of  a  man  who 
fell  so  low  as  to  pawn  his  goods  and  chattels, 
and  the  wound  still  rankled,  and  Peter  meant 
to  have  back  his  alarm-clock.  That,  he  re- 
peated to  himself,  was  why  he  was  going 
to  Mrs.  Potter's,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew 
this  was  not  so— he  wanted  to  see  Buddy. 
He  wanted,  before  the  boy  forgot  him,  to  re- 
312 


PETER  GETS  HIS  CLOCK 

establish  for  a  moment  the  old  ties.  In  short, 
he  was  jealous  of  Mrs.  Potter. 

As  he  walked  up  the  track  he  planned  the 
interview  in  advance.  "Mrs.  Potter,"  he 
would  say,  "I  have  come  to  get  my  clock. 
Here  is  the  money,  and  I  'm  sorry  I  had  to 
trouble  you  to  keep  it  so  long."  Then  he 
would  lay  the  money  on  the  kitchen  table, 
and  Mrs.  Potter,  slightly  awed  by  his  new 
clothes,  would  hand  him  the  clock.  "And  if 
possible,"  he  would  say  then,  "I  'd  like  to 
speak  with  Buddy  a  few  minutes."  Mrs. 
Potter  would  then  call  Buddy. 

That  was  as  he  planned  it,  but  the  nearer 
he  approached  Mrs.  Potter's  cove  the  less 
likely  it  seemed  to  Peter  that  Mrs.  Potter 
would  be  much  awed  by  the  clothes.  By  the 
time  he  was  within  half  a  mile  of  the  cove 
he  was  not  only  sure  that  Mrs.  Potter  was 
not  the  woman  to  be  awed  by  anything,  but 
he  began  to  wish  he  had  not  bought  the 
clothes.  He  could  imagine  her  tone  as  she 
313 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

put  her  hands  on  her  hips  and  looked  him 
over  and  said,  "Well,  of  all  the  shiftlessness 
I  ever  heard  tell  of!  Coin'  and  dressin' 
yourself  up  like  a  dude,  and  you  not  a  roof 
in  the  world  to  hide  your  head  under !"  He 
wished  he  could  see  himself  just  once  more 
in  a  large  mirror,  so  that  he  might  renew 
the  feeling  of  confidence  he  had  felt  at  Rosen- 
heim's.  Instead,  he  felt  much  as  a  young 
fellow  feels  when  he  dons  his  first  dress-suit 
and  steps  upon  the  dancing-floor.  He  felt 
stiff  and  awkward,  and  that  every  garment 
he  wore  was  a  showy  misfit.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  Peter  Lane  at  all,  but  some  flashy, 
overdressed,  uncomfortable  stranger.  He 
suddenly  realized  that  he  had  hands  and  feet, 
and  that  the  new  hat  was  stiff  and  uncom- 
fortable, and  that  the  tie — so  placidly  blue  in 
the  dusk  of  the  clothing  store — was  ram- 
pantly and  screamingly  blue  in  the  full  light 
of  day.  He  felt  that  he  had  done  an  in- 
excusable and  reckless  thing  in  buying  the 
3H 


PETER  GETS  HIS  CLOCK 

new  clothes,  and  he  knew  Mrs.  Potter  would 
tell  him  so. 

Peter  decided  that,  since  he  was  sure  to 
be  in  for  a  horrible  half  hour,  he  would  as- 
sert his  manhood.  If  Mrs.  Potter  scolded 
he  would  sass  back.  He  had  money  in  the 
bank,  had  n't  he  ?  He  had  heard  enough  of 
her  hard  words,  hadn't  he?  All  right! 
The  minute  she  said  "shiftless"  he  would 
speak  right  up.  He  would  look  her  firmly 
in  the  eye  and  say  something  like — "Now, 
stop !  You  Ve  talked  to  me  that  way  be- 
fore, Mrs.  Potter,  when  I  was  a  poor  shanty- 
boatman,  but  I  Ve  had  just  about  enough  of 
it !  I  'm  tired  of  that."  He  would  hide  the 
misery  of  his  clothes  in  a  flood  of  high  words. 

That  is  to  say,  if  Mrs.  Potter  gave  him  a 
chance!  For,  as  Peter  turned  from  the 
track  to  the  road,  and  neared  the  gate,  he 
saw  it  all  depended  on  Mrs.  Potter.  If  she 
did  not  wish  him  to  talk,  that  would  end  it, 
and  it  was  a  meek,  uneasy,  uncomfortable, 
315 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

undecided,  miserable  Peter  that  turned  in  at 
the  gate. 

And  then,  before  he  could  tuck  the  sleeves 
of  his  flannel  shirt — which  seemed  to  have 
grown  until  they  were  ridiculously  long — 
into  his  coat  cuffs — which  seemed  to  have 
become  ridiculously  short — a  young  girl 
jumped  from  behind  one  of  the  old  apple 
trees  and  stood  staring  at  him.  Peter  took 
off  his  hat  as  if  she  had  been  a  princess.  He 
was  in  the  state  of  mind  when  he  would  have 
taken  off  his  hat  to  a  wax  figure. 

But  the  girl  stood  but  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  ran  toward  him. 

"I  know  who  you  are !"  she  cried.  "You  're 
Uncle  Peter,  ain't  you  ?  I  'm  Susie !" 

"Susie ?"  said  Peter.     "Are  you  Susie?" 

He  tried  to  greet  her  as  a  man  should 
greet  a  strange  child,  but  she  would  have 
none  of  it.  She  threw  her  arm  around  his 
right  arm  and  hugged  it,  jumping  up  and 
down. 

316 


PETER  GETS  HIS  CLOCK 

"O  Uncle  Peter !  Uncle  Peter !"  she  cried 
joyously,  and  turning,  she  screamed  at  the 
top  of  her  voice:  "Bud-dy!  B-u-u-u-dy! 
Bud-dy !  Here  's  Uncle  Peter !" 

Around  the  corner  of  the  house  popped  a 
hatless,  kinky  head. 

"Uncle  Peter!  Uncle  Peter!"  screamed 
Buddy,  running  with  a  strange  little  hippety- 
hop.  "O  Uncle  Peter!  My  Uncle  Peter! 
My  Uncle  Peter !"  and  he  threw  himself  into 
Peter's  arms,  laughing  and  crying  and  trem- 
bling with  joy,  repeating  over  and  over, 
through  the  laughter  and  the  tears:  "My 
Uncle  Peter!  My  Uncle  Peter!" 

"My  Buddy!  My  old  Buddy-boy!"  Peter 
murmured,  hugging  him  close.  "My  old 
Buddy-boy!" 

So  it  happened  that  he  was  not  thinking  of 
his  new  clothes  when  Mrs.  Potter  came  to 
the  kitchen  door. 

"Well,  for  the  land's  sake,  Peter  Lane," 
she  cried,  while  Buddy  clung  to  his  neck  and 
317 


THE  JACK-KNIFE  MAN 

Susie  clung  around  one  leg,  "it 's  about  time ! 
I  thought  you  never  was  comin'.  I  been 
waitin'  here  for  you,  with  these  two  father- 
less children — " 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  rackety-bang- 
ing of  the  alarm-clock,  proving  that,  as  the 
clock  was  set  to  ring  at  six,  Peter  had  found 
a  mother  for  the  fatherless  children  at  just 
seventeen  minutes  past  three. 

"If  it  wouldn't  annoy  you  too  much  to 
get  married,  Mrs.  Potter/'  said  Peter,  gasp- 
ing at  his  own  temerity,  and  wiping  his  fore- 
head on  the  sleeve  of  his  new  coat,  "I  can — 
I  could — we  'd  have  quite  a  nice  little  family 
to  start  off  with  right  away/' 

"Annoy  me?  Is  that  what  you  call  a  pro- 
posal to  marry  me,  Peter  Lane?"  asked  Mrs. 
Potter  scornfully.  "Ain't  you  ever  goin'  to 
be  able  to  talk  up  like  a  man !" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  snapped  Peter.  "Will  you 
marry  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will !"  snapped  the  Widow  Potter. 

THE    END 

318 


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